


Put Your Arms Around Me and We'll Walk Together

by Radiday



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-05-05 20:54:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14626854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiday/pseuds/Radiday
Summary: Fred gets shot. The town helps him recover. He helps them too.





	1. Chapter 1

When Fred’s finally able to stay awake for more than five minutes at a time, the doctors allow him more visitors. Archie hasn’t left his side since he woke up three days ago, and with Mary getting into town the day before, there’s been a worried redhead with him at all times.

Fred’s trying his best not to let his discomfort show, but the days right after the shooting are particularly difficult. The first antibiotic combination they gave him made him puke, which only exacerbated the gunshot wound that tore through his side. He was lucky that Alice Cooper recognized the signs of someone about to upchuck, and he was saved the shame of having to puke on himself.

“I’ve seen you’re puke face before, Fred,” she chides as she holds the basin under his chin, rubbing circles on his back. “You really couldn’t hold your liquor in high school.” In his drug induced haze, Fred remembers thinking that Alice hasn’t been this nice to him since his dad died.

He pukes one more time before they decide to change his meds. Mary had just arrived, and Fred had finally prevailed in getting Archie to go home and shower, with prodding from the Lodges. Mary had walked in, trying her best to take quiet steps despite her three-inch heels, so as not to wake what appeared to be a sleeping Fred.

“You didn’t have to come,” he mumbles from the bed.

She’s not surprised, Fred always did have a knack for knowing when she’d entered a room without looking. “Yes, I did,” she whispers, clasping his hand in between hers.

“Thank you.” His voice is so low he’s practically mouthing the words. His eyes remain closed, but he squeezes back.

They sit like this for what seems like eternity, and Mary’s almost certain Fred’s actually asleep now. She’s just closed her own eyes when she hears a gruff, “Mary.”

She blinks, and for the first time since she’s arrived, looks directly into her husband’s eyes.

“Can you get that bin?” he asks, gesturing to the table at the end of his bed.

She knows that bin. “Are you gonna puke?”

Fred closes his eyes again. “I don’t know, maybe.”

He does, about five minutes later. The bullet wound in his side sends pain coursing though his body, bringing tears to his eyes.

Mary simultaneously rubs his back while helping him stay upright so he doesn’t choke. When he’s finished, she pushes the button on the wall behind him to alert the nurses.

Fred sinks back into his pillows and takes a sip of the water Mary offers him. He finds himself drifting into sleep when the nurse, with Dr. Masters on her heels, rush into the room.

“He puked again,” Mary starts.

The nurse checks his vitals while Dr. Masters reviewed his chart. 

“I’m going to change your antibiotic regimen, Fred,” Dr. Masters explains. “You might be allergic to something. Mind if I take a look?” he says, nodded to his abdomen.

Fred musters a lazy nod against the pillows, gripping Mary’s hand tighter.

As Dr. Masters gently moves the blankets covering Fred and opens his gown just enough to see the wound, Mary thinks it might be her turn to puke. The white, thick gauze is a stark contrast to the blood stains that had seeped through it.

“Nurse Wilkins is going to change the bandage, okay? Then, I promise we’ll let you sleep for a few hours,” Dr. Masters offers, pressing down on the edges of the wound and checking the stitches.

Fred gives the same weak nod as before, sinking into the pillows even more as Mary brushes his hair away from his forehead.

Nurse Wilkins, for her part, does her best to be gentle, but even the lightest touch puts Fred in a world of hurt. He keeps a tight grip on Mary’s hand, who herself is trying to discretely look away from what the nurse is doing. When she’s finished, she takes a quick listen to Fred’s heart and lungs, before offering to up his pain medication to compensate for the painful bandage change. Fred nods his acceptance and is asleep within a minute.

When he wakes up again, it’s Jughead who’s at his side. If he could, Fred would’ve laughed at the picture before him. Jug’s feet are propped up on the edge of Fred’s bed, his eyes glued to the tv as he flipps though the channels on mute.

“You can turn it up,” Fred tries to say, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. He tries clearing his throat as Jughead fills a cup of water and presses the straw against Fred’s lips.

“How are you feeling?” Jughead asks. “That’s a stupid question, I know, but…,” he trails off, shrugging his shoulders.

“I’m okay,” Fred mumbles, relieved that he sounded at least a little bit better. “Where’s Archie?”

“Mrs. A took him to get something to eat. Betty and Veronica too.”

“So, you drew the short straw, huh?” It was the longest sentence he’d spoken since he woke up, and his body was screaming at him for it.

Fred had meant it as a joke. He swore he even tried to smile. But the heartbreaking look he got from Jughead let him know it was too soon to joke. Painkillers or not, he was still a father. And Jughead was still practically his son.

“I wanted to stay,” Jug says, voice cracking. “We were really worried about you.”

“I know, Jug. I’m sorry. Gallows humor, I guess. I really do appreciate it. I’m glad you’re here.” Again, his body curses him for speaking, but he doesn’t care. Up until now, everyone had been hiding their emotions around him, like they were afraid he would break. Or maybe he was just too high to notice their feelings. Probably both.

But Jug, Jug was different. He always had been. He never hesitated to speak his mind, even as a little boy. He was never afraid of letting everyone know exactly how he felt.

“Does it hurt?” Jug asks after a minute of clear hesitation.

“No,” Fred responds. He wasn’t lying, it really didn’t hurt. Now if only his brain wasn’t so damn foggy. “They got me on the good stuff,” he says, pointing weakly to his IV pole. “What’re you watching?”

That finally got the laugh Fred had been waiting for. “Dancing with the Stars. They all suck.”

Fred smiles. “Keep flipping. Maybe we can find a Hitchcock movie.”

Jughead perks up even more. “I doubt it. For a hospital, they really do a crap job at providing quality entertainment for their patients. You know what? Tomorrow I’ll bring my laptop. I’ve got all the good ones on it.”

“That sounds wonderful, Jug.”

They finally settle on an old black and white western and make it a quarter of the way through before Fred’s eyes start to droop. Jughead watches as he fights sleep, thinking that if this were any other Tuesday, he’d be making fun of Mr. Andrews for not being able to stay awake.

 _Jeez_ , _Mr_. _A_. _Looks_ _like_ _you_ _need_ _your_ _beauty_ _sleep._

But it’s not any other Tuesday, so he gently removes his feet from the bed and moves to turn off the TV.

“Leave it on.” Fred’s voice makes him jump. “Stay, please, Jug.”

Fred’s voice is barely there, but Jughead resumes his position and lowers the volume. Fred falls asleep with his hand gripping Jughead’s.

Archie and Veronica are there the next time he wakes up. The lights have been dimmed, and he cranes his neck as best he can to read the clock above the door.

2:21, it reads. Archie is fast asleep beside him, his body folded over so that his head is resting on Fred’s bed. One arm is under his face, the other still outstretched, wrapped around Fred’s.

Veronica’s in a chair that wasn’t there before, next to Archie. Her head is resting on her hand, carefully perched on the armrest of the chair. She’s staring at nothing.

Fred shifts in an attempt to get comfortable, causing Veronica to turn her head. She jumps up when she sees Fred awake, making her way to the other side of the bed.

“Do you need anything?” she whispers, then automatically wonders if she’s talking too quietly. _No_ , _you_ _idiot_ , she thinks, _he_ _got_ _shot_ , _he’s_ _not_ _deaf_.

Fred shakes his head against the pillows, then whispers back, “Why aren’t you both at home? It’s late.”

“Actually, it’s early,” she corrects, a smile on her lips. Fred smiles too. “We tried to get Archie to go home, but he refused. He wanted to be here when you woke up in the morning.”

“And you?” Fred shifts again, this time sliding his right arm gently under the blanket and pulling it up with his left.

Veronica helps, pulling the blanket up so they come up to Fred’s shoulders. “Are you cold?”

Fred shakes his head, but continues looking at Veronica, waiting for an answer to his question.

She sees his tired eyes watching her, blinking slowly with a fatherly smile on his face. She can’t help but think that she actually understands what her mother saw in Fred. He’s a good man. A good man. A give-you-the-coat-off-his-back kind of man.

A take-a-bullet-for-his-son kind of man.

“I guess I just wanted to see for myself that you were alright.”

“I am.” Fred nods. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“It’s hard not to. You’re basically the patron saint of Riverdale. Practically the whole town’s been out in the waiting room.” Veronica feels the tears rising to the surface as she speaks. She turns her head and swipes at her face, hoping that Fred might not notice in his drug induced haze.

Except she knows that’s not possible. Fred is a father through and through. He can read the children of this town like an open book.

“Thank you for the wallet. I really appreciate it,” he says in an attempt to cheer her up. He wishes he could do better, but the morphine seems to be kicking in and he’s not sure how much longer he can stay awake as it is.

“It’s the least I could do. I think it suits you.”

“It does. And thank you for cancelling the credit cards. I’m not sure how you got past all the security questions.”

“A Lodge has her ways,” Veronica says, clasping her hands around Fred’s. It’s getting harder and harder for him to hide his exhaustion. “You should sleep. We’ll be here in the morning.” She tucks Fred’s left hand under the blankets too, smoothing them out, before retaking her position in the chair.

As promised, Fred wakes in the morning to the sound of two young lovebirds talking in hushed tones next to him. Veronica sees him first, because Archie’s back is turned towards him.

“Archie,” she says gently, nodding in Fred’s direction. “The doctor wanted to know when you woke up,” she adds. “I’ll go let the nurse know.”

Fred nods his thanks and turns his head to look at Archie and his heart sinks. Red-rimmed eyes and a wet face let Fred know that Archie’s been crying. He wishes he could actually kick himself for making his son feel this way.

“Arch.” He doesn’t get a chance to finish, though, because Archie’s face crumples and he buries his head in his hands and sobs.

Fred hasn’t seen Archie cry like this is years, not since Mary moved out. Archie tried to keep it together in front of them back then, but Fred regularly listened to Archie cry himself to sleep in the weeks after. Not that he was surprised, though, because Fred was usually in his bedroom doing the same.

Archie’s still crying, and Fred reaches out and says his name, but Archie’s sitting on his right side and he can only reach so far.

“Archie, kiddo,” he tries again. “Come here, please.” He makes room for Archie in the bed, patting the space next to him.

Archie hesitates for a moment, and Fred senses it, because he senses everything Archie feels, so he adds, “I’m okay. You won’t hurt me.”

Archie climbs in and lays on top of the blankets that are covering Fred. He props himself up on the pillows, wipes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Dad, I- I’m sorry.”

Fred shakes his head again. “Son, you saved my life.”

“No, no! I could’ve done more. I could’ve helped you. I could’ve stopped the guy.”

“Arch, if you had tried to fight him, he would’ve killed you.”

“You don’t know that! Maybe I could’ve-“

Fred cuts him off. “I do know that. I know he had a gun to your head. I remember that much. And I remember trying to bargain some sort of deal with the universe. That if he left without hurting you I could die. Me for you. And you know why?”

Archie shakes his head, even though he does know why.

“Because I’m the father. That’s my job. Archie, look at me. You are the only thing that matters to me. If he had hurt you-“

It was Archie’s turn to cut Fred off. “He didn’t.”

“But if he had, Arch, that would’ve been it for me. I wouldn’t have been able to… I took that bullet because you are my son and I’m going to protect you. That’s not your job, that’s mine. And I would do it every day of my life if it meant keeping you safe. It’ll all make sense some day, son, when you have kids of your own. Then it’ll be your job to take the bullet.”

He reaches up to run his hand through Archie’s hair, even though his side is aching. Archie nods and gives Fred a watery smile. “I love you, Dad,” he whispers.

“I love you too, son. You have no idea how much.”

And that is how Veronica and Nurse Wilkins find them minutes later. Archie’s head resting on Fred’s shoulder, Fred’s hand entangled in Archie’s hair. Both asleep, their breathing matching rhythmically, as if performing some kind of Andrews family song.

They look peaceful, Veronica thinks, before turning back to the nurse.

“Maybe we should come back.”

He awakens next to a blonde head in front of him. The empty space next to him is still warm, so he knows Archie couldn’t have left too long ago.

He recognizes the back of the blonde head immediately. He would even without the signature ponytail.

“Betty,” he says. It comes out as barely a whisper, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Betty.”

Betty turns from the chair at the foot of the bed. Fred recognizes the scrapbook in her lap. Polly has one too, so does Archie. Alice had practically forced them into making baby books for all their children.

“Hey, Mr. Andrews. You okay?”

“Yeah.” He shifts slightly, stifling a groan. “Taking a walk down memory lane?”

Betty smiles, looking down at her lap. She picks up a picture that she’d taken out of the scrapbook, holding it up to Fred.

“Is that you?” she asks, moving her chair closer for Fred to get a better look.

“Yeah.”

“Is that me?”

Fred shakes his head. “That’s your sister.”

“That’s Polly?”

Fred laughs. He takes the picture from her and examines it. He remembers this day well. They’re in the Andrews living room, Fred and Polly sitting on the floor in front of the couch. Polly’s maybe seven or eight months old, an adorable, chubby, drooling little girl with a pink bow in her hair the size of her head. _Leave_ _it_ _to_ _Alice_ , Fred thinks.

Alice and Hal were at their wits end, he remembers. Polly wasn’t sleeping through the night, and they desperately needed some time to themselves. Fred had volunteered them, him and Mary, to take the baby girl for the evening. Mary’s the one who took the picture, catching Fred in action reading some children’s book he can’t remember the name of. He’s wearing a wife beater, the kind he thought made him look more muscular, one arm holding the book open and the other wrapped around Polly, who sits in between his outstretched legs.

Neither of them are looking at the camera, and they’re both laughing. Polly the kind of heart-filling baby laugh that makes any day better, and Fred the kind of loose, wholehearted laugh that he now can’t remember doing in a while. He’s got a goofy, tooth-showing grin on his face, in love without a care in the world.

“What was she like as a baby?” Betty asks as Fred hands the picture back.

Fred smiles. “She wouldn’t sleep. It drove your parents nuts,” he says, laughing. “But she was a happy baby. She’d laugh at just about anything. You were the same way.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I remember, I would just sit in front of you and blink, and you’d think it was the funniest thing in the world.”

“What about Archie?”

“Archie thought it was funny to grab my face in his tiny little hands and hit me. That’s what made him laugh.”

Betty smiles and puts the picture back, turning the page. “Oh that one,” Fred says, pointing to a polaroid of Alice and Betty, dressed in their Sunday best. Alice is smiling from ear to ear, but Betty’s got her arms crossed across her chest and a frown on her face. “That’s Easter. You and Archie were probably three or four. You were mad because he found more Easter eggs than you, so you said you weren’t going to be his friend anymore. He cried for hours. Your dad finally had to march you over back to our house so you could tell him you didn’t mean it.”

Betty ran her fingers down the edges of the plastic-encased photo. “I don’t remember that,” she says softly.

“I don’t doubt it. You were so young. Anyways, you guys spent the rest of the day playing in the backyard. I think he even gave you some of you Easter eggs. You’ve been friends ever since.”

And so it went on, Betty showing Fred pictures from the scrapbook, Fred explaining the stories behind them. The mishap at her parents’ wedding, when Hal spilt grape juice on his tux and Fred and FP ran around Riverdale trying to find a replacement. When FP and Gladys had brought their baby girl over to the Cooper’s for the first time, and Jughead had refused to call her “Forsythia” but instead only referred to the baby as “Jellybean,” and it stuck. A picture of Fred smiling ear to ear with his arms thrown around a pregnant Mary’s neck at the baby shower Alice had hosted, only for Mary to go into labor halfway through lunch.

On and on they went, making their way through the scrapbook, until she pointed out a picture of her parents, Mary and Fred, and FP and Gladys in what looks to be high school. “Mr. Andrews,” she starts, but looked up to find him asleep, breath steady and forehead relaxed, a slight smile on his lips.

 _Another_ _time_ , she thinks, smiling to herself and closing the album to the past.


	2. Chapter 2

Hours later, Archie’s back, piled into the room with Jughead, Veronica and Betty when there’s a knock on the door.

Sheriff Keller enters, raising a hand as a greeting. He’s relieved to see Fred’s awake. He briefly flashes back to senior year, when he had had knee surgery just before the start of basketball season in this very hospital, and Fred had come into his room leading the entire Riverdale Pep Band and woken him up by bouncing up and down on the bed.

That Fred had been so full of life, so carefree, so happy. Tom shakes the memory out of his head, refocusing on the job he’d come here to do.

“Freddy,” he says. He hadn’t used that nickname since the good old days. “It’s good to see you awake.”

Fred laughs. “What, no pep band for me? I’m hurt, Tom,” he returns. 

“Ha, don’t worry. They’re practicing. I gotta make sure to top you.”

When the teenagers in the room look around confused, Fred lolls his head to them and says, “We were young once, too,” with a laugh. The others join him, but then Tom grows serious.

“Listen, Fred. I gotta-“

Fred cuts him off. “Ask me some questions. I know the drill, Sheriff.”

“Is it alright if we have the room, kids?” Keller asks.

“Can I stay?” Archie asks from his seat beside his father.

Fred looks at Tom with pleading eyes, so Tom nods and takes the empty chair on the other side of Fred’s bed, opposite Archie.

“Can you tell me what happened, Freddy?”

He shifts and winces before starting. “I uh, I was meeting Archie for breakfast. He went to the bathroom, and a few seconds later the guy walked in.”

“Can you tell me what he was wearing?”

Fred nods. “Jeans. Motorcycle boots. He had a leather jacket on.”

“Any markings on the jacket?”

“It wasn’t a serpent, Tom,” Fred says, looking him dead in the eyes, speaking with more force than his body allowed. “No,” he says more softly, “it was just a black leather jacket.”

“What happened after he came in?”

“He got on the counter. He held the gun to Pop’s head and started screaming about where the safe was. He kept saying, ‘Give me your money.’ Then Archie came out, and the guy got off the counter and pointed the gun at me. He wanted my wallet. Archie tried to block the shot,” he blinks tiredly, “but I got in front of him. After that, I… I don’t remember much. I know he held the gun to Archie’s head, and that’s it. That’s where it goes black.”

“Fred, is there anyone that you can think of that would do this? Someone that might have a grudge?”

Fred shakes his head. “You mean this was more than a robbery?”

“Well,” Sheriff Keller says, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’ve got to explore all our options. Pop says no money was actually taken. But we’re having trouble finding your wallet.”

“Archie told me.”

“We think he might’ve taken it. Is there anyone that you can think of? Someone you fired? Any threats? Emails? Phone calls?”

“The only person I’ve ever fired is-,” Fred cuts himself off. “FP didn’t do this.”

“We know." Tom sighs. "He’s still in jail. But anyone else?”

“No. I can’t think of anyone,” Fred says, sinking deeper into the bed and laying his head back on the pillows.

“Alright, Freddy. You get some rest. If you think of anything, let me know. In the meantime, you’ll all be the first to know when we get a lead, okay?”

“Thanks, Sheriff,” Fred mumbles with a small smile, watching his old friend leave. He turns his head to Archie, eyes half open, and squeezes his son’s hand. “You should go get something to eat.”

Archie nods, but doesn’t move. “I’m not hungry right now. I’ll go in a little bit.” He looks back up at his father, who’s suddenly asleep again, hand still clinging onto Archie’s.

* * *

On day four post-shooting, the physical therapist knocks on the door and introduces herself as Courtney Lewis.

Alice Cooper, who’s been keeping Fred company, both at her daughter’s request and for herself, rises and shakes the woman’s hand, looking her up and down with that typical _I’m judging you, you better be competent_ look _._ “I’m Alice Cooper, a friend of Fred’s.”

Courtney nods. “You’re a lucky man, Mr. Andrews. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that waiting room so full,” she says, smiling, trying not to be fazed by the woman staring her down.

Fred senses the tension, so he says, “Don’t let Allie scare you. Her bark is worse than her bite.”

Now it’s Fred’s turn to receive the Alice look. “Don’t call me Allie,” she scoffs.

“Hey now, I’m hurt and stuck in this bed. I can call you Allie if I want to, Allie.”

Courtney watches the exchange and smiles. It’s good to know that patients have strong support systems. It speeds recovery. “Well, funny you should say that, Mr. Andrews, because I’m here to help you work up to getting out of bed.”

“Work up to it?” Fred raises an eyebrow.

“You’re only four days post-op. If you’re up to it, I’d like to just test your sensations and range of motion today. You just sit back and relax. I’ll do all the work.”

Alice watches closely, before asking, “And how long have you been doing this, Ms. Lewis?”

“Five years. I’m good at my job, ma’am,” she feels compelled to add.

Alice harrumphs disapprovingly. “You better be.”

“Alice!” Fred exclaims as best as he can. “Would you just sit down and let the poor woman do her job?”

Alice obliges, taking a seat in the chair at the foot of the bed, watching intently with her arms crossed.

“Now,” Courtney explains, “I’m just going to move your right arm and leg around, okay? It’s going to hurt, but you let me know if I need to stop.”

Courtney moves to the head of the bed, taking Fred’s arm in hers. She rotates his wrist, then moves his forearm up and down, and finally, grips his tricep and moves it slowly above his head.

Fred grits his teeth the entire time, shoving his other hand deeper into the bed to stop himself from screaming.

“That’s good, Mr. Andrews. It’ll get easier, I promise. Just a few more times.” She repeats the motion of raising and lowering Fred’s arm until his face is dripping with sweat.

Alice has moved from her chair in the corner to the left side of Fred’s bed, allowing him to squeeze the life out of her hand. Her judgmental attitude is replaced with one of sheer concern.

Courtney moves to the foot of the bed, carefully disentangling the blankets that cover Fred’s right leg. She repeats the motions, first bending Fred’s leg at the knee, and then holding his ankle and the back of his knee firmly, lifts his leg off the bed. By the tenth time, Fred feels like he’s going to puke all over again. He’s about to tell Courtney to _stop, please, it hurts_ , when she puts his leg down.

“That’s really good, Mr. Andrews. Tomorrow, we’ll see if we can get you sitting up, and we’ll go from there. How does that sound?”

Fred’s breathing heavy, feeling out of breath and exhausted and disappointed that he can’t do more. He nods anyways and plasters a smile on his face. “Good,” he says through a breath. “That sounds good.”

Courtney gathers her things and leaves, almost running into Hermione when she opens the door.

Alice is still holding Fred’s hand with one of hers, rubbing his shoulder with the other.

“Who was that?” Hermione asks as she enters the room.

“Satan,” Fred mumbles, eyes still closed.

Hermione cocks her eyebrows and looks at Alice. “The physical therapist,” she explains.

“Physical therapy? So soon? He just had surgery!”

“He’s right here,” Fred mumbles again.

Alice gently swats his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Fred. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

Hermione jus’ got here,” he slurs, head lolling to the side.

“It’s okay, Fred. I’ll be here when you wake up,” Hermione whispers, taking a hold of Fred’s other hand.

* * *

She keeps her promise. When Fred wakes up, Alice is gone, but Hermione remains, hand still laying over his, as if to protect him, keep him safe.

She’s reading a book, Fred notices. It looks old but he can’t tell what it is. “What’re you reading?”

Hermione jumps. “Jesus, Fred.”

Fred laughs, squeezing Hermione’s hand. He nods to the book again.

“Oh,” Hermione sputters. “To Kill A Mockingbird. It was the only thing in the waiting room that was remotely interesting.”

“Weren’t we supposed to read that in high school?”

Hermione nods. “Supposed to?” she says, laughing. “You didn’t read it, did you?”

Fred laughs too. “I saw the movie.”

“I just started. You want to hear it?”

“You’re going to read to me?” he asks, one eyebrow raised, a playful smile on his face. For a minute, it reminds her of high school Fred. Biggest flirt Fred. Pre Riverdale-turned-to-shit Fred.

Instead of saying this, she nods. “Yeah, I am.”

Fred watches as she quietly start the book. “When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow…”

They make it to chapter two before Fred’s fast asleep again. Hermione keeps reading until she falls asleep herself.

* * *

Archie’s back at his usual spot when he wakes next. Mary’s there too, sitting next to him, holding his hand.

Fred keeps his eyes closed as he listens to the two of them talk, Archie filling his mother in on school, music, Veronica, just about anything else he can think of.

He can’t help but smile internally, heart swelling at the family that sits before him. It’s not what he imagined when he thought of his future family as a teenager, but now he can’t picture anything different.

He opens his eyes, and it takes a minute for Mary to notice. He gives her a half smile, and she gives him a tooth-bearing grin in return. “Hey, sleepy head.”

Archie turns too, a smile on his face. _Thank god,_ Fred thinks. He swears Archie’s smile is better than any painkiller this hospital can offer.

“Dad,” Archie sighs with relief. “I was just telling Mom about last month when Vegas chewed up the couch.”

Fred shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “It cost me $300 to get that couch fixed.”

Mary laughs from her spot. “You should’ve just gotten a new couch, Fred!”

“That’s what I said,” Archie chimes in.

“I like that couch,” Fred says, a pout on his lips.

“Oh, hey Dad,” Archie says as he moves the rolling table at the end of Fred’s bed closer to him. “They want you to try and eat something more than pudding today, is that okay?”

Fred hesitates. He’s not sure he can stomach whatever’s in that bowl in front of him.

“It’s oatmeal, honey,” Mary adds, sensing his hesitation. “Just a few bites. You’ve got to get your strength up.”

Fred nods, so Archie hands him the spoon. He eats it slowly and is shocked. He’s never been one for oatmeal, but this doesn’t taste half bad. He’ll have to remember to tell Jughead that Riverdale General may have crappy television, but the food isn’t that bad.

He’s taking his last bite when a thought suddenly crosses his mind. “Is Vegas okay?”

Mary smiles and stifles a laugh. When they’d first gotten Vegas, Fred had rolled his eyes and dragged his feet. Archie was enough of a tornado, did they really want a puppy to take care of too?Nevertheless, they’d taken Archie to the pound on his eighth birthday, and it took him less than five minutes to point to the small golden lab in the corner. “I want that one,” he’d said.

After that, Fred had warmed up to the dog quickly. After they split, Mary would return on her visits to Riverdale and face a growling Vegas when she tried to reclaim her side of the master bed.

The first time it happened, Fred had simply laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s his side.”

She’s brought back to reality by Archie’s voice. “He’s fine, dad. I think he’s freaked out because he hasn’t seen you in a while. But he’s alright. We all take turns walking him.”

Fred nods, suddenly very sleepy, and drifts off thinking about the dog he never wanted but always loved.

* * *

The kids are back this time. All four of them, scattered around the room.

Betty and Veronica are in two chairs in the corner of the room, mulling over some homework that Fred thinks might be exactly the same assignment from his time at Riverdale High.

Jughead and Archie are on Fred’s right side, hunched over the laptop sitting on Jug’s lap. “Dude,” Jughead is saying. “You cannot possibly be telling me that you think _Pretty in Pink_  is better than  _The Breakfast Club._ ”

Archie laughs. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Juggie.”

“Boys,” Veronica warns from her seat, looking out over her glasses. “Quiet down, you’ll wake Mr. Andrews.”

“Too late,” Fred’s gruff voice calls out.

“Perfect,” Jughead proclaims. “Mr. A, which is better? _Pretty in Pink_ or _The Breakfast Club_?”

Fred laughs. “Both. I actually love them both.”

Veronica looks up fully this time. “Is it because that redhead in both those movies looks like Mrs. Andrews?”

Fred gives a tooth-showing grin and winks. “That’s exactly why.”

Jughead is about to say something about how strange old people are when his phone rings. Fred watches as the smile fades from his face. He hesitates, but answers it anyways.

He barely gets out a hello before Fred can hear the person on the other line yelling. Jughead holds the phone away from his ear before he tries to talk again. “Hang on, he’s right here. Yeah, he’s awake. But you can only talk to him if you stop yelling.”

The person on the other end yells something again, but then the voice fades. Jughead silently hands the phone to Fred.

Fred looks from Jughead to Archie, attempting to get some clarification before pressing the phone to his ear with his left hand. “Hello?”

“Freddy! Oh, god, Freddy,” the voice cracks. Fred can’t help but smile. He could recognize this voice anywhere.

“I’m okay, FP.”

“You got shot, dumbass. There’s no way you’re okay.”

“I’m getting there” He pauses, then asks, “How are you?”

“I’m fine, Freddy. This isn’t about me. I heard some of the deputies out here talking about the shooting. What the hell happened? Is Archie okay?”

“He’s fine. As for what happened, that’s still up in the air. But I’m okay, I’m alive. That’s what’s important, right?”

“No, well, yes. But what else matters is that I get my hands on that son of a bitch and crush-,” FP says, before Fred cuts him off.

“You and I both know that’s not a good idea. Besides, your left hook is pretty weak.”

Fred can almost hear the smile that spreads across FP’s face. “Always criticizing,” he laughs. He takes a deep breath before his voice grows serious again. “Listen, Freddy, about all the stuff that we’ve fought about, all the things we’ve said…” he trails off.

“It’s all water under the bridge, F,” Fred finishes.

“Good,” FP breathes out. There’s a sound of someone yelling coming from behind him, signaling his time is up. “Listen, I gotta go. But as soon as I get out of here, I’m coming to see you. And when you’re better, we’ll go fishing, just like old times, okay?”

Fred smiles, stifling a yawn. “I’d like that, FP. See you soon. Take care of yourself.”

“You too, F.”

The line goes dead, and Fred hands the phone back to Jughead. “Thanks, Jug.”

“You bet, Mr. A. He’s been asking about you for days now.”

Fred nods sleepily, his eyes drooping shut before he opens then slowly again. “You guys are okay?”

Betty nods. “Yeah, Mr. A. We’re all good.”


	3. Chapter 3

Day five brings the return of Courtney Lewis. Mary’s with him this time, and both Courtney and Fred breathe a sigh of relief at not having to face the wrath of Alice Cooper.

Courtney starts with the same exercises she did the day before. Mary watches with wide eyes and a tense body as the once nearly pro baseball star is almost brought to tears just by lifting his leg. 

When that’s done, Courtney moves around the bed so she’s on Fred’s right side. Mary moves too, backing herself into a corner, so as not to get in the way.Fred can’t help but think, through the searing pain, that he’s never seen Mary so quiet. So meek and unsure about what to say and how to act. He tries smiling at her again, and Mary promises to never tell him that it came out more like a grimace.

“Alright, Fred,” Courtney says. Fred laughs internally, but its bitter and scared, because yesterday Courtney had stuck with calling him “Mr. Andrews.” Today, it’s “Fred.” He’s been around long enough to know that that usually means he’s about to get hurt. 

“Let’s get you sitting up, okay?” Courtney continues. “We’re going to swing your legs over the bed. I’ll be right here the whole time.” She turns to nod at Mary, a gesture letting her know she should come closer.

Mary comes to Fred’s other side, and Fred readily takes her hand and squeezes it tight, pressing it against the bed as leverage as he moves his legs slowly off the bed.

Courtney helps, pushing them slightly, and before long, he’s sitting up, his legs dangling off the side of his bed.

Fred’s still squeezing the life out of Mary’s hand, and the front of his hospital gown is damp with sweat.

“Good,” Courtney says, beaming. “That’s so good, Fred. Now, I want you to stay like this for a few more minutes, alright? Then you can lay back down. We’ll do it again in a few hours.”

Fred smiles poorly as he clenches his jaw, using all his strength not to scream. He doesn’t want to do it again. And yet, he wants nothing more than to be up and walking normally without everybody looking at him like he’s made of glass.

So he sits, and he grits his teeth.

Three minutes in and he’s got his eyes fixed on the outlet on the wall, in desperate need of a distraction.

“How’s work?” he asks Mary.

Mary stumbles. In their marriage, Mary’s work had been a point of contention between her and Fred. Too many hours, too much stress, too much traveling. She remembers nights when Fred would simply look at her wordlessly, disappointed, when she announced she had another trip coming up. He’d always leave the room after that, to take Vegas on a walk or to mow to lawn or to pick up Archie. Anything to get out of there before he completely lost it. Because in all their years together, Fred never once raised his voice at her. Never shouted, not even close. She sometimes wishes he did. She thinks it would’ve made it easier on her to just yell at each other than have to face Fred’s silent sadness, knowing she’d let him down once again.

What made it worse was knowing that he never intended to make her feel that way. The only thing Fred cared about was his family, it didn’t take much to see that. All he wanted was to keep them together.

“Mare?” She jumps at his voice.

“Oh, sorry,” she says, then fills him in on her coworkers, her cases, her life in Chicago that could have been theirs.

Courtney comes back in the room and praises Fred, helping him slide his legs back under the covers. Mary wipes the damp strands of hair off of his forehead, and he’s drifted off before she even sits back down.

* * *

He wakes up to Hal’s worried face. He’s seen Hal a few times since he’s been here. Usually with Alice or Betty, or just stopping in quickly on his way to work. So, when he walks in and stands at the foot of the bed, wringing his hands together nervously, Fred can’t help but ask.

“Why do you look so weird?”

“I don’t look weird,” Hal says too quickly.

“What’s wrong, Hal?”

Hal steps closer. “Listen, I just want to remind you that I’m just the messenger. I had no part in this.”

“In what, Hal?” Fred asks. He can’t help but smile at the nervousness. Hal’s always been a bit of a worry wart, even in high school.

“Look, when Archie first called us, we weren’t sure… We didn’t know… We didn’t know if we needed to get ready to say goodbye.”

Fred raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. “So, when Archie called Mary, Alice, uh, Alice…”

“Alice did what, Hal?”

“Alice called your mom.”

“What?” Fred spits, his body immediately screaming at him for it.

“She’s been calling like crazy. Mary’s been able to hold her off for a few days now, but she’ going to come down here if she doesn’t hear from you. I've got the phone here, if you could just-.”

Fred sighs and gestures to Hal. “Call her.”

Hal dials the number silently, hands the phone to Fred, and slips out of the room.

“Hi, mom,” Fred says after clearing his throat, well aware that he sounds just about as awful as he felt.

“Freddy,” his mother chokes out. She's crying, Fred knows, and he tried to muster up the strength to comfort her.

“It’s okay, mom. I’m okay. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m coming down there.”

“No, no, mom. You really don’t have to. I’m okay. I’m going home soon.” It’s a lie. He has no idea when he’s going home. He makes a mental note to ask his doctor next time he comes in.

“Fredrick, no. I have to. Please, that hospital, I…” The words don’t need to be said. _I lost my husband in that hospital, my oldest son._ Instead, she settles on, “I can’t lose you, Freddy.”

“You won’t.” He suddenly understands what Archie’s feeling. He hasn’t had to comfort a parent in a long time, not since…

Not since his dad died. Not since a drunk driver sped into Oscar’s car just outside of town.

He shudders at the memory. “I’m okay. Archie’s okay. We’re all okay.” Betty’s words ring in his ear.

“Freddy, I just don’t feel right about not being there,” she says. He can still hear the tears.

“Mom, I promise. Mary’s here to help with Archie. She said she’s going to stay until I’m back on my feet. And besides, Alice Cooper’s always around keeping everyone in line.”

Mrs. Andrews sniffs. “Of course, she is. I always liked that girl.”

Fred stifles a laugh. “I know you did, Mom.” He looks up when he hears the door open to see Archie’s head poking through. He waves his son in. “Hey, here’s Archie, wanna talk to him?”

He hands he phone over, smiling when Archie laughs and rolls his eyes. “Hi, Grandma.”

She demands that Fred and Archie come to California after Fred was better. She even insists that Fred should be airlifted out there, that it would be better for all of them.

Archie laughs awkwardly, because he knows Fred loves Riverdale almost as much as he loves Archie, which meant he could never leave.

He eventually hands the phone back to Fred, who, after saying his own goodbyes and promising to call her daily, ends the calls and lets his head drop back into the pillows. “What’d she say?” he asks with his eyes closed.

“That we should move in with her,” Archie says. Fred lulls his head to look at Archie and rolls his eyes.

“Thanks for talking to her. I don’t think I had it in me to go much further,” Fred says, his voice slurred from exhaustion.

Archie squeezes his dad’s hand. Fred squeezes back.

* * *

A knock on the door wakes him next. Jughead comes in, laptop in one hand, backpack swung over the other shoulder.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says she he sees Fred scrub his face with his hands.

“No, I’m glad you did. I’m tired of sleeping.”

“Well,” Jughead says proudly, “then I’ve got just the thing for you. I brought ‘Psycho."

“Oh,” Fred sighs dramatically with a smile, putting his hand to his chest in play. “You do love me.”

Jughead pulls the rolling table closer to Fred and turns on the laptop. He laughs. “I’ve got all the classics on here, in case you want a change of pace.”

Fred laughs too. “Isn’t there a show about ‘Psycho?’ Archie told me they made one not too long ago.”

Jughead scoffs. “They did. It’s no good. Everything made after 1990 is garbage.”

Fred furrows his brows. “You were made after 1990,” he offers.

Jughead looks at Fred blankly. “You’re only proving my point.”

Fred’s heart sinks slightly. He tries, “Betty was made after 1990.”

Jughead gives him a half-smile. “There are exceptions to every rule, Mr. A.”

They fall into a comfortable silence after that, laughing at one another when they get scared, even after seeing the movie a couple dozen times.

Fred’s proud of himself for making it nearly to the end of the movie. His eyes are beginning to feel tired, but this is the longest he’s been awake since he’s been shot.

He feels himself slipping, having a harder time re-opening his eyes each time they droop shut. He finally lets them close, but not before reaching to touch Jug’s arm, which is propped up on his bed, holding his head up in his hand.

“Jug,” he whispers.

Jughead blinks, looking over wordlessly.

“You’re not garbage.”


	4. Chapter 4

_'Hey, Casanova. I ordered your usual.'_

_He’s looking forward to hearing about Archie and Veronica. He likes them together. They’re good for each other._

_Archie leaves to wash his hands when the guy comes in. Face covered in some sort of black hood, waving a gun around, demanding money._

_Archie comes back out and looks at him in sheer terror._

_Fred shakes his head. 'Don’t move, son,' he thinks._

_But Archie does, stepping in front of him as the man fires the gun. Fred watches, unable to move, as his son falls to the ground with a bullet wound in his chest._

_‘Archie! Archie, no! Son, look at me, stay with me! Archie! Archie!’_

“Archie!”

Fred bolts up, unable to stop himself as the pain renders him unable to speak.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, rubbing small circles.

“It’s okay. Archie’s okay. You’re safe. You’re in the hospital,” the voice says gently.

He manages to look up and see that it’s Veronica, face pale with worry. “You had a nightmare,” she offers.

He nods, panting breathlessly, slowly positioning himself back on the bed.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out weak and pathetic.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Veronica says, rubbing Fred’s arm ever so slightly. “Archie just went home. I can call him back for you if you want?”

“No, no,” Fred croaks. Pain bolts up his side again, and he squeezes his eyes shut to bare it.

Veronica eyes him and fiddles with the morphine pump. “Want me to push it?”

Fred shakes his head.

“It’ll help, Mr. Andrews.”

Fred knows she’s right, so he nods and looks at her through half-open eyes. “Okay.”

She pushes the button and can’t help herself from moving a few loose strands of hair from Fred’s forehead. “Is there anything else you need? Should I call a nurse?”

Fred arches his back slightly and clenches his fists, waiting desperately for the morphine to kick in. “What time is it?”

“Around 10 pm,” Veronica says as she sits back down in the chair next to Fred’s bed.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

“It’s Saturday tomorrow, Mr. Andrews.”

“Oh,” Fred says, feeling useless. He looks at her again. “Do you know when they’re going to let me out of here?”

Veronica shakes her head. “Archie said maybe a week or so? They want you to be able to walk around.”

Fred sinks in defeat. Veronica notices. “Hey, Mr. Andrews,” she says.

Fred looks at her and raises his eyebrows.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How did you pick Archie’s name?”

Fred laughs before growing playfully serious. “Why do you ask? Is there something you need to tell me? I’m too young to be a grandfather, Veronica.”

Veronica smiles. “Not to worry, Mr. Andrews. Archie is ever the gentleman. I’m just curious. I mean, you’re Fred, and Mrs. Andrews is Mary, so how did the two of you come up with Archibald?”

Fred can’t help himself. He laughs. It hurts less. “It’s an odd name isn’t it?”

“Well, no, but…”

Fred cuts her off. “No, it is.” He smiles. “It’s my grandfather’s name. But it was never my idea to name him that. Mary wanted something unique, and my mom kept hinting at it. They were in it against me.”

“What did you want to name him?”

Fred laughs and shakes his head.

Veronica smiles and prods on. “Tell me."

“Mike,” he laughs out.

“Mike?” Veronica cries in laughter.

“Mike Andrews. I thought it had a nice ring to it. Sounds like a pro baseball player.”

Veronica raises her eyebrows. “Yeah, that’s the face Mary gave me,” Fred says.

“I guess you’ve gotta make compromises when she’s the one carrying the baby, huh?”

“Yeah,” Fred mumbles, the morphine finally kicking in. “Yeah, you do.”

* * *

He awakens to Betty watching the door like a hawk.

“Is everything okay?” Fred asks, clearing his throat.

Betty jumps but recovers quickly. She turns her head but stays close to the door. “Oh! Good, Mr. Andrews, you’re awake!”

“Barely,” Fred mumbles, stifling a yawn.

Betty checks her phone and perks up. “Oh, don’t worry, Mr. A. You’ll be feeling wide awake right… about… now.” She smiles widely as the door opens. Jughead and Veronica appear, the same happy look on their faces.

He can hear the squeak of Archie’s shoes against the floor. He’s talking, but Fred can’t make out what he’s saying.

That is, until Archie appears at the door, golden lab in tow.

Fred sits up as best as he can, smiling from ear to ear. Jughead closes the door and Archie unhooks the dog from his leash. Nobody even has time to blink before he’s dashing madly for his owner.

“Vegas! Hey, buddy. Good boy,” Fred exclaims, scratching the dog behind his ears.

Vegas’ front paws are up on the bed, tail wagging and panting with excitement. “Yeah,” Fred coaxes. “I missed you too.”

He keeps scratching Vegas and he asks, “How did you get him in here?”

“It was Ronnie’s idea,” Archie says, unable to control his smile at his father’s happiness. “She convinced Dr. Masters to let Vegas come.”

Veronica smiles. “One condition: Vegas has got to be on his lease outside this room. Other than that, he’s free to do whatever his little dog heart desires.”

Vegas takes a few steps back, and Archie knows that means he’s about to jump. He quickly prompts the dog to be gentle, hoisting him up on the bed to join Fred.

“Easy, Vegas,” Archie murmurs.

Vegas circles on the small hospital bed, then settles down at the foot of his owner, much like at home.

“Looks like he’s happy here,” Betty says.

“Yeah,” Fred says, eyes still glued to the dog. He forces the tears down. “Thank you, Veronica. All of you.”

“Anything for my favorite Andrews,” Veronica boasts.

Archie feigns hurt. “Hey!”

Fred laughs. “No, I mean it. All of you. I really appreciate everything you’ve been doing for me. I know this isn’t easy.”

“No,” Jughead starts. “You know what wasn’t easy? Trying to sneak Archie out of his back window every night to come to the treehouse without you hearing. That wasn’t easy. This…” He pauses, leaning over to pat Fred’s blanket-covered leg. “This is just what family does.”

* * *

He feels Vegas leave, vaguely hears Archie calling out to him, but he doesn’t have the energy to open his eyes.

He doesn’t wake up fully until he feels a different, heavier pressure on the other side of his bed.

He recognizes the cologne before he even looks up.

“They let you out?” Fred shifts and laughs.

“Hey,” FP draws out. “Look who’s finally back in the land of the living.” He’s sitting on the edge of Fred’s bed, rolling an apple between his hands. “How ya feeling?”

“Okay.” 

FP watches him closely. “Yeah, that’s what you always say,” he says, tossing the apple with one hand and catching it with the other.

“It’s always the answer.” Fred lolls his head over to face FP, watching the apple in the air.

“You see, that,” FP stops tossing the apple to point to Fred, “is not possible, Freddy. Nobody’s always okay.”

Fred closes his eyes and leans his head back, sighing. “I’m not really up for your philosophical journey today.”

FP laughs and puts the apple down on the rolling table at the foot of Fred’s bed. “You love my philosophical journeys.”

Fred opens his eyes. “So, you’re good? They let you out, for good?”

FP nods. “Yep.” He pops the P. “Cleared of all charges. When are they gonna let you out?”

Fred shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve lost track of time in here. They said they want me to be able to walk around before they release me.”

FP nods to Fred. “Have they gotten you out of bed?”

Fred fiddles with the frayed edges of his blanket. “No, that’s today’s project.”

As if on cue, Courtney Lewis enters after knocking. “Speak of the devil,” Fred quips. “Courtney, this is FP Jones, a buddy from high school. FP, my physical therapist, Courtney.”

They’re exchanging pleasantries when FP gets up from the bed and makes for the door. “I don’t want to be in the way,” he says. “I’ll come back later,” he adds, directed at Fred.

“Actually,” Courtney stops him. “If you’ve got the time, it’d be great if you stuck around. We could use the extra hand.”

“What she means is, I could use the extra hand.” Fred smiles, but FP can sense the self-deprecating bitterness. “What’dya say? You wanna go on a walk with us?”

FP sucks a breath. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’m game.” He takes off his leather jacket, dumping it on the chair next to the bed.”

“Great,” Courtney says.

Five minutes later, they’re on either side of Fred, who’s dangling his feet off the side of his bed. “Now remember,” Courtney says, squeezing Fred’s hand gently. “It’s been six days since you’ve been on your feet. It’s going to take your brain a minute to remember what to do. We’ll get you standing, and then you can put this on. She holds up a terrycloth robe.

“Ah, yes,” Fred says. “I almost forgot that this robe is ass-less.”

FP laughs and looks like he wants to say something. He doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his arm around Fred’s back, tucking his shoulder into Fred’s right side. Courtney’s got the other side, and together, they hoist Fred up to standing.

Fred’s knees buckle, and a groan slips past his lips. He’s suddenly feels breathless and also remotely like he wants to cry.

FP steadies him. He’s breathing heavily in Fred’s ear, mumbling, “Good work, buddy. You can do it.”

Fred leans further on FP as Courtney moves to get the walker. “I’ve never understood why they put tennis balls on those things,” FP remarks in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Courtney gives a courtesy laugh. Fred ignores him.

They move to help Fred grip the walker. “Alright, Fred, I want you to walk to the door, okay?” Courtney asks. She moves to the exit, nodding discretely to FP to let him know to stay behind Fred. Fred doesn’t notice.

Fred nods, still out of breath. He grips the walker with knuckle-whitening strength, FP’s hand hovering over his back.

He tries to stifle a moan as walks, moving as slowly as he ever as, his legs feeling like they're made of cement.

FP follows him all the way to the door and smiles from ear to ear. “Look at you, man, you’ll be good as new in no time.”

Courtney nods. “That was great, Fred. Let’s go back to the bed and call it a day.”

Fred doesn’t blink. “I want to keep going.”

“Freddy.” FP leans in close. “You gotta take it easy. This was great. We can go again tomorrow.”

“No." Fred’s firm. “I want to keep going.”

FP looks to Courtney pleadingly. Courtney returns a sympathetic look. “Okay, Fred. But only halfway down the hallway. Then you’ve gotta come back. We can do some more tomorrow.”

FP nods his thanks, and continues to follow as Fred walks, bitterly shoving the walker in front of him with each step.

Fred’s absolutely dripping with sweat by the time they make it back to the room. FP helps him sit back on the bed, legs dangling again.

“Great work today, Fred. I’m going to let the nurse know to come help you get cleaned up, okay? After that, try and get some rest. It’s well earned.”

Courtney leaves, and FP takes a seat next to Fred on the side of the bed. Fred can’t help but think that this is the first time in a week he’s actually sat next to somebody. Not someone looking down at him, not someone keeping a bedside vigil.

He’s actually looking someone directly in the eye. He can’t help but feel relieved that it’s FP.

“So, is ‘help you get cleaned up’ code for sponge bath? ‘Cause if it is, I gotta stick around. I would pay to see that.”

It’s the kind of camaraderie Fred hasn’t had with FP in a while. Come to think of it, it’s the kind of camaraderie Fred’s hasn’t had with anyone in a while.

“You would,” Fred plays back. “I think I’m graduating to a shower.”

“Look at you! Baby boy’s growing up.”

“I’m not a baby,” Fred mumbles. “You’re a baby.” He suddenly feels tired, like he’ll fall asleep sitting up if he has to.

FP looks over, laughing quietly. “I don’t know, man. You’re the one that looks like you need a nap.”

Fred gives a genuine half smile. “I think you’re right about that.”

FP nods. “I’ll go tell them to give you your sponge bath later. I’ll be right back,” he says as he helps lift Fred’s legs under the covers.

Fred’s practically asleep by the time FP reaches the door. “It’s a shower,” he mumbles, before drifting off.


	5. Chapter 5

The next week is filled with a revolving door of friends, neighbors, and doctors. Fred’s never completed sure what time it is, let alone the day. On day nine, a knock on the door brings a new face.

She's about Mary's height, hair dark like Hermione's, and complexion pale as Alice. “Mr. Andrews? My name is Melody, I’m the social worker. May I come in?”

Fred nods. Betty is sitting with him, complaining to Fred about the latest calculus test.

Melody shakes Fred’s hand, then Betty’s. “I’ll give you some time,” Betty says, shutting the door behind her.

Melody takes the chair that Betty occupied, moving it closer so she can look Fred in the eye.

“Mr. Andrews, did the doctor tell you I was coming?”

Fred shakes his head. “He could’ve. I’m sorry,” Fred laughs bitterly, “It’s been hard to keep track what people are telling me around here. You said you’re a social worker?”

Melody smiles sympathetically and nods. “That’s right. How’ve they been treating you around here?”

Fred shrugs. “Not bad. I’ve been sort of out of it, but it’s been okay. You know, given the circumstances.”

Melody nods again and purses her lips. “Well, that’s actually why I’m here. You see, Fred, they ask me to come talk to patients that have experienced recent trauma.”

She pauses, giving time Fred to process. He looks down at his hands and wrings them together. “Like getting shot?”

“Like getting shot.”

“I don’t know that there’s much to talk about. I got shot, and I lived. End of story,” Fred shrugs.

“The doctor told me you’ve been having nightmares?” Melody prods.

Fred looks up and meets Melody’s eyes. “Once or twice. It’s not that big of a deal.”

Melody prodes on. “Are they about the shooting?”

Fred nods slightly, but doesn’t say anything.

“What happens?”

Fred hesitates. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. None of this is mandatory. I just want you to know that there’s someone here you can talk to.”

“He points the gun at me and Archie, that’s my son,” he adds unnecessarily, “jumps in front of me and takes the shot. That’s usually when I wake up.”

“Archie was there with you?

“Yeah.” It comes out watery. “I just - It could’ve been him, you know? It was this close,” he raises his fingers, “to being him.”

“That must be really scary, as a father,” Melody offers.

Fred doesn’t say anything, just tries to stop the tears from falling.

Melody, for her part, doesn’t offer anything either. She lets Fred take a moment to compose himself. “I watched my father die,” he mumbles, feeling more pathetic than ever. “I know what that’s like and I promised myself that I would never put my child through that.”

“We can’t control these things.”

Fred laughs, and it’s watery and bitter like usual. “He’s fifteen. He’s fifteen, and he held me in his arms and watched me bleed out. He drove me here, you know that? He doesn’t even have a driver’s license, and he drove me here. I was his age with my father died... I was too young. _Archie's_ too young. ”

“You didn’t die, Fred.”

“He’s still… Is he ever going to be able to go into Pop’s again without thinking about what happened?”

“Are you?”

Fred blinks. “What?”

“Are you going to be able to go into Pop’s without thinking about what happened?”

Fred feels like the air’s been sucked out of his lungs. “I…I don’t know.”

Melody shifts in her seat. “Fred, it’s clear as day how much you love your son. I mean, you took a bullet to protect him. How does that make you feel?”

“How does it make…” Fred trails off, furrowing his brows.

“Yeah, how does it make you feel?” Melody repeats. “Look, I’ve been around a lot of families. Not every parent would do that for their child.”

Fred looks shocked. He knows that’s true. Hell, he knows parents personally that wouldn’t protect their kids like that. “I didn’t even think about it,” Fred shrugs.

“Would you do it again?”

“Yes.” Fred doesn’t even blink.

“Is Archie’s life worth more than yours?”

“Yes.” It’s firm.

“Why?”

It’s practically rapid fire now. Fred’s answering passionately, without even having to think. “He’s my son. His life became more important than mine the day he was conceived.”

“But Archie didn’t get shot, you did.”

Fred doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know what to say.

“It seems to me that you’re feeling a great deal of guilt, Fred. Does that sound right?” Melody asks.

Fred feels himself breathing faster. He wills himself to calm down, failing desperately. He clenches his jaw and looks at Melody. “Yeah,” he says through gritted teeth.

“What do you feel guilty about?”

“He almost had to watch me die.” Fred can’t stop the tears as they silently slide down his cheeks.

“Like you had to watch your father die?” Melody offers.

Fred nods and swipes his eyes. “I just- I can’t stop thinking about it. I felt so helpless when I was younger. And I had my mom and friends there with me. Archie… he would’ve been alone.”

“You think?”

Fred doesn’t respond, but meets Melody’s eyes. “It seems like Archie’s got a great group of friends around him. The girl that was in here before, Betty?”

Fred nods.

“She was a friend of his, right?” She doesn’t wait for him to respond. “And his mother, she’s here?” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say, is that Archie’s got a support system. One that you’ve helped him build. The weight of his world does not need to be on your shoulders.”

Fred’s still silent, unmoving. “I know it’s your job as his father to protect him, but what good will you be able to do if you don’t take care of yourself?”

Fred sighs. “You sound like like Mary.”

“Do you believe us?” Melody smiles.

“I… yeah. I do,” Fred nods. “Deep down, I do. I just… I don’t know what to do now. I feel helpless.”

Melody nods. “That makes sense.” They lock eyes. “Given everything that’s happened, I think it’s warranted. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of letting you know it’s time to let others take care of you.”

“Maybe,” Fred sighs skeptically.

“Look, Fred, you’re getting out of here soon, right? I won’t lie, it’s going to be a difficult adjustment. It’ll hurt, emotionally and physically. But it’s okay to need help. You’re not Atlas.”

Fred nods. “That’s what my mom used to say to my dad.”

“She sounds like a smart woman.”

Fred smiles. “Thank you, for this. I… uh, I guess you’re right.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Fred. I know it’s going to be hard to hand over responsibility. That’s what I’m here to help with. You give me a call anytime, okay?” she says as she hands over her card.

She leaves soon after, and Fred examines the card, turning it over in his hands. _Maybe she was right,_  he thinks as his exhaustion takes over him.

* * *

Two days before Fred’s discharged, the nurse sits down with him, Archie and Mary to discuss his care.

Fred’s in a wheelchair, head resting on the arm that’s propped up on the armrest. Archie sits on the bed, legs dangling off the edge. Mary’s next to him, in the chair that had held nearly the entire town at one point or another during the last two weeks.

“No walking around,” the nurse reviews. “At least not until your follow up with Dr. Masters next week. It’s important that you stay in bed, alright? You need your rest.”

“Any physical therapy...” Mary starts to ask, trailing off.

“You’ll start up again next week, after your next follow up. Until then, just take it easy. No heavy foods either.”

“No pizza?” Fred offers, feeling his heart swell when Archie breaks out into a smile.

The nurse laughs. “Not yet. But soon, I promise. What am I missing?” She rifles through the papers before handing tone to Mary. “Ah, yes. Here’s a list of all the medications. You’re fine to take them all together, just make sure it’s not on an empty stomach.”

Fred nods blankly, locking eyes and laughing with Archie at Mary and the nurse going about about Fred’s care.

Two days later, the Andrews family returns home. “I’ll take the couch,” Fred mumbles as he glares at the stairs, entering the house with Archie’s assistance.

“No, you won’t. That’ll only make you feel worse. Let’s get you into bed and we’ll leave you alone, I promise,” Mary chides gently. She moves quickly to stop Vegas from pouncing on his owner. She moves to the kitchen to get Fred’s medication in order, leaving Archie to support his father.

“Arch,” Fred chokes out. “I can’t.” Melody’s words ring in his ears. ‘You don’t have to be Atlas.’

“It’s okay, Dad,” Archie soothes. “We’re almost there. Just lean on me.”

“Archie, it’s too far.” Fred’s clinging onto his son, one arm around Archie’s shoulder, the other clinging onto the neck of his shirt.

“Okay, it’s okay, Dad,” Archie breathes out. “Let’s just sit down,” he says as he holds his father up and moves towards the couch.

Fred grunts before sinking into the couch. Mary rushes back in, a whirlwind like she’s always been, and hands him the pills she’s doled out. Vegas circles the living room before settling into a spot near the window, in direct line of the sun.

Fred takes them along with the glass of water Mary offers him, his hands shaking. Archie notices and takes the glass from his father’s hand to put it on the coffee table. Fred sinks into the couch, leaning his head back.

“You have school tomorrow,” he says suddenly.

“I’m not going. Principal Weatherbee’s okay with it, we’ve already talked to him,” Archie responds, nodding to his mother.

Fred lifts his head up, ignoring how heavy it feels. “You should go, Arch.”

“It’s just for the next two days, Fred. Betty’s going to bring his homework,” Mary chimes in from the kitchen.

“You shouldn’t have to skip school for me,” Fred argues weakly.

“He’s not,” Mary offers as she enters the room and sits next to her husband. “He’s skipping school for me. I rarely get to see Archie, this’ll give us a chance for us to catch up.”

Fred gives a half smile. “Nice try.”

Mary laughs. “Let’s get you up to bed,” she coaxes, patting his leg, and helping him up off the couch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussion of deceased child.

Fred hauls himself up the stairs, clutching to Archie’s shirt for dear life. Archie stays silent the entire way up, jaw set in an attempt to remain strong. He tries not to remember what happened nearly two weeks ago, rushing into the hospital holding father up with every fiber of his being.

Mary follows close behind, spotting the father and son duo. Archie settles him into bed so he’s sitting up, and Mary, noting her husband’s drenched shirt, gets a loose flannel from his closet.

“Do you want to put this on?” she asks, holding up the shirt.

Fred nods weakly. He feels murky and vaguely nauseous, but he doesn’t say anything, trying to settle his stomach by staring at the wall. Vegas jumps up on the bed and Fred winces as the bed bounces. He starts to unbutton his shirt, but his arm catches.

“Let me do that,” Mary offers. She undoes the rest of the buttons and carefully slides the shirt off Fred’s arm.

It’s the first time Archie’s actually seen the bandage that protects his father’s wound. Looking at the white, bulky gauze makes him feel faint, and he’s never been so grateful to hear the doorbell ring. “I’ll get it,” he mutters as he slips out.

If Fred notices, he doesn’t say anything. Archie comes back as fast as he left, breathless from his run up the stairs. “It’s Mrs. Cooper,” he breathes. “She brought a bunch of casseroles?” He finishes it as a question, because he’s not really sure what to make of it. He’s not sure of a lot of things right now.

“I’ll go talk to her,” Mary says. “You okay doing this?” she asks Archie.

He’s not, but he can’t say that. Instead, he nods, moving around the bed. Fred’s got the left sleeve of his clean shirt on by the time he gets there. Archie takes the right sleeve and lifts his father’s arm gently into it. Fred holds back a wince.

“I’m sorry,” Archie murmurs.

Fred shakes his head. “It’s okay, son. I’m okay.” Fred buttons the shirt himself, smiling gently at Archie, who starts to button it for him.

Fred slides his shoes off, settling into the bed. “Where’s everybody at?”

Archie’s standing there, hands in his pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Huh?” his head snaps up.

“Jug. Veronica. You should go hang out with them.” Fred’s laying on his back, one hand laying across his stomach protectively covering his wound.

“They’re around. I’ll see them later.” He keeps rocking.

“Just because I’m stuck in here doesn’t mean you need to be, Arch,” Fred slurs.

“I know, Dad.” It’s gentle. “You just get some rest. I’ll go help Mom and Mrs. Cooper.”

He wakes up again with an incessant urge to shower. The clock on his bedside reads 8:14. Vegas is no longer on the bed with him, but his spot is warm. He sits up slowly, reaching for the crutches that Mary had left by his bedside.

Hauling himself up, he grasps the crutches firmly. The floor feels foreign beneath his sock covered feet, cold and hard and new. Like he hasn’t lived here for the last twenty years.

He moves more slowly than he’d like, each step forward sending pain shooting up his side. He vaguely remembers the nurse telling him not to get out of bed, and scoffs at the thought.

He hears the TV on downstairs, one of those romantic dramas Mary loves so much. He moves past the stairs to Archie’s room. He can hears two voices floating through the ajar door.

The floor creaks under Fred’s feet, and the voice halt. Jughead’s head peaks around the door, and he opens it in a hurry when he sees Fred.

“Mr. A! It’s good to see you home,” Jughead smiles.

Archie doesn’t look as pleased. “Dad!” he chides. “You’re not supposed to be walking around yet.”

“I’m gonna,” Fred pauses to clear his throat. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Should you be doing that?” Jughead chimes in from his spot cross-legged on Archie’s floor.

“I don’t really know,” Fred says with a laugh. “I zoned out when the nurse was talking.”

Archie laughs too. “So did I. Lemme go ask Mom.”

“No!,” Fred says a little too forcefully. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“You’re not supposed to stand for that long, Dad.”

“I won’t. I’ll sit on the edge of the tub. I’ll be okay, really, son.”

Archie hesitates. “Dad…”

Fred gives a thin smile. “You want to give your old man a bath, son?”

Jug chokes on the water he’d been drinking, his laugh turning into a cough. Archie smiles too and shakes his head. “Not really, no.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll be fine, really.” Fred turns to walk away when he hears Archie’s voice again.

“Yell if you need anything?”

Fred turns his head. “You got it.”

Mary’s standing outside the bathroom door when he gets out, arms crossed and a frown on her face.

“You’re not supposed to shower alone, Fred.”

Fred cocks his eyebrow. “You wanted to help me? Doesn’t that go against the whole divorce thing we’ve got going on?” He wraps the towel around his waist, holding on to the counter for support before reaching for his crutches, trying his best not to let Mary see him wince.

He hates to admit it, but the pain seems worse now than when he was in the hospital. He thinks it as something to do with the constant stream of morphine they’d been pumping into his system.  
He collapses onto the bed, using all his strength to sit upright. Mary doesn’t even blink, simply taking Fred’s pajamas off the bed next to him and sliding them up his legs.

“I think the divorce rules change a little when someone gets shot,” she answers finally. Fred hooks his left arm around her, using her as leverage to stand slightly as she pulls the pants up around Fred’s waist.

“Thanks,” he murmurs into her ear.

Mary smiles. “I’ve got soup heating up. I’ll go get it.”

Fred’s suddenly exhausted. “I’m not hungry,” he says as she helps him slide back under the covers.

“You’ve got to eat. You’ll throw up the meds if you don’t. Hang tight. Don’t fall asleep just yet. I’ll be right back.” She kisses his forehead, and with that, she’s gone.

She returns quickly though, and he’s still awake, as promised. She puts the tray with soup and juice over his lap and slides onto her side of the bed next to him.

Her side.

She tries not to think about how it hasn’t been her side for a while now.

Fred eats slowly and in silence. Mary watches hesitantly, Fred notices. Like she’s got something to say.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m supposed to be asking you that.”

“I’m tired of people asking me that,” he returns.

Mary doesn’t respond, but keeps watching him sadly. Fred puts the spoon down. “Mary.”

They lock eyes, and Fred sees the tears welling. “Mar-,” he starts, but she cuts him off.

“I’m sorry,” she says suddenly.

Fred doesn’t blink. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

She blinks, and a tear escapes down her face. “Yes, I do,” she says, her voice watery and full of sadness.

“Mary…” Fred trails off, rubbing her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

Mary throws her head up and rubs her eyes with her palms. “You were so good to me. You’re so good to our son…” she opens her mouth then shuts it again. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed.”

Fred’s taken aback. He shoves again his pain and exhaustion and tries again. “Mary, that’s not true.”

“It is!” It’s louder than Mary wants it to be. She lowers her voice. “You gave up everything for us, for your dad and Oscar…” she trails off and Fred shakes his head.

“Mary,” he starts. He can’t find it in him to tell her to stop. Please. Not today.

“For Evie,” she adds quietly.

Fred freezes. He tries to stop his body from shaking. They hadn’t talked about Evelyn in years. Fred had tried, at first, but it just made Mary angry. So he tucked away his sadness and guilt and carried on.

“Mary, you don’t have to…” he trails off.

Mary shakes her head. “Yes, I do. She was your daughter too. I never let you feel sad about her.”

“I felt sad, Mary. I did,” he’s looking at his hands. “I still do,” he adds almost silently.

Mary turns so she’s facing Fred. “You wanted to talk about her. I never let you. You held her,” she’s sobbing now, quietly, unable to control her tears. “You held her when she died.”

“Mary, please,” Fred chokes, trying to control his own tears.

He doesn’t want to talk about this. Not anymore. Not with anyone. Evelyn Andrews died the day she was born. She lived for 3 hours and 13 minutes, Fred can never forget it. He remembers the look on the doctor’s face during the ultrasound. Her fake sympathetic smile as she patted Mary’s arm and told them, “Your baby doesn’t have a brain.” Mary cried, and Fred held her, rocked her, and promised her that he’d call everyone. ‘You don’t worry about that. Just rest,’ he’d told her. The doctor explained their options, that they could abort or Mary could carry the baby to term. It wasn’t a question for either of them. He remembers it like it was yesterday.

He’d held it together for Mary’s parents, who had relocated to Florida the year before. They had cried and wanted to talk to their daughter. ‘She’s not feeling well right now,’ Fred lied. ‘I’ll have her call you tomorrow.’

He’d told his own mother in person. He’d stopped by unannounced, hands shoved in his pockets. He was crying before she even opened the door. ‘Freddy? Freddy, baby. What happened?’

He’d collapsed right there, in the doorway. Crumbled to the floor and sobbed, clinging onto his mother for dear life.

He stayed for dinner that night. Oscar had dropped by with bank papers for their mother, finding Fred in the bedroom that they’d once shared, hugging a pillow.

‘Freddy?’ he’d said as he’d knocked on the door.

‘You don’t need to knock. This is your room too,’ Fred had said wetly.

‘Yeah, well,’ Oscar tried weakly. ‘It’s not really either of our rooms anymore.’ He had shut the door behind him, kneeling in front of Fred, resting his hands on his brother’s knees. ‘I’m sorry, Freddy. I’m so sorry.’

Fred had started crying again, resting his head on top of Oscar’s.

Oscar had always been better at comforting. Fred attributed it to him being older.

Evelyn was born on a Friday, just like her brother two years later. She didn’t cry. She made strange choking noises as Fred held her. Mary held her too, but it got to be too much, so Fred held her, hell bent on memorizing every curve and freckle on her face.

He held her for an hour after she had taken her last breath. Simply held her over Mary’s lap with both of his arms, willing her to come back with everything in him.

Somewhere in between the time she was born to the time she died, a nurse offered to take a picture. Mary refused, but Fred let her do it. He keeps the picture tucked away in his dresser to this day. He’s never shown it to anyone.

He’s suddenly brought back to reality, with Mary still looking at him, eyes pleading for forgiveness.

It was the first straw, he thinks, in a long line of events that tore their marriage apart.

He had wanted to talk about it, to go to therapy, to do something besides bury the memories of their daughter alongside her.

She would scream, dripping with grief of a mother that couldn’t protect her child, telling Fred that he didn’t know what it was like, that he’d never understand.

So Fred would nod quietly and step out, just like he’d always done when they fought. He’d drive around for hours until he felt like he could go back home without wanting to scream right back at her.

On his worst day, FP found him belligerently drunk at the construction site. Mary had called, FP had said. She was worried.

Fred had spat back some snide remark and thrown an empty beer bottle at him, he remember that much. And then he cried, FP holding him well into the night, letting him sob into his shirt until it was soaking wet.

Mary had told him she was pregnant with Archie two months later.

He’s brought back again when Mary holds his hand. “It’s alright,” he soothes, bringing her close so his chin rests on her head. “It’s over now.”

Mary sniffs and wipes her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again.

“I know,” Fred murmurs, because there’s nothing left to say on the matter. He kisses the top of her head. “I am too.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one's kinda boring. But ya know, the mundane life of recovery.

Mary’s still asleep beside him with his eyes drift open. She’s curled up next to him, hands tucked under her chin, dry tears staining her face. Fred gently slides his good arm out from around her, detangling himself from her hair.

He reaches for the crutches but leans too far over and recoils at the sharp pain it brings. He takes a deep breath and looks at Mary to make sure he hasn’t woken her up before shifting himself closer to the crutches and trying again.

He’s successful this time, forcing himself to balance with everything he’s got. He checks one last time that Mary’s still asleep before he limps out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

He glares childishly at the stars as he crutches past time, trying not to think about how difficult it’ll be to go down them soon. He leaves the thought for now, moving towards Archie’s door, stopping to check if he hears voices from the other side of the door. He doesn’t, so he knocks quietly.

“Come in.”

Fred opens the door and pokes his head through first, balancing awkwardly on the crutches.

“Dad, you really weren’t listening when the nurse said you’re supposed to stay in bed, were you?” The concern is clear in his voice, but Fred can tell he’s trying to keep it playful.

Fred scoffs. “Hey I was…sort of listening,” he says with a laugh, cocking his head from side to side. “Jug leave?”

Archie nods. “He went to go meet Betty. He’ll be back for dinner though, if that’s okay.” He looks up at Fred, and suddenly he looks very childlike. Fred’s reminded of the times Archie would beg for regular weekend sleepovers with Jughead.

Fred smiles and nods. “Yeah, of course that’s fine. Is your mom cooking or…?”

Archie laughs. “Mrs. Cooper brought enough food earlier to survive the zombie apocalypse. We’ll just reheat some of that.”

Fred swipes his forehead playfully. “Phew. For a minute there I thought you’d be forced to eat your mother’s sad excuse for cooking.”

“Where is mom anyways?”

“Asleep,” Fred says, nodding his head towards the master bedroom. “She was tired,” he lies, unwilling to indulge their earlier conversation. “You’re probably tired, too, son. Are you getting enough rest?” Fred asks, readjusting the crutches to keep them from digging into his armpits.

Archie notices and is quick to rearrange himself on his bed, sitting up and motioning for Fred to come sit beside him.

Fred complies, leaning the crutches against the bed and gently lowering himself down. He’s too muddled to hide the wince so he lets it out freely. Fred looks over and smiles easily at his son, patting his knee. “How are you sleeping?” Fred repeats.

“Fine, dad,” he says too quickly. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Are you, really?”

Archie shrugs. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay if you’re not, son. You can tell me.”

Archie lets out a frustrated sigh. “I said I’m fine, Dad!,” he lets out, more loud than he intended. Fred raises his eyebrows and tries not to look taken aback. Archie takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’m sorry,” he says uselessly. “I’m fine, really. I promise. And you shouldn’t be worried about that. The only thing you need to worry about is getting better.”

Fred hums and squeezes Archie’s knee. “Right,” he mumbles. He won’t push right now, he knows better than that. But he tucks Archie’s outburst away for another time, when both he and Archie are feeling better. “What’re you up to?” he nods to the homework spread out on Archie’s bed behind them.

“English. We’ve gotta read…” he trails off, fumbling behind him and brings out a book.

“Ah, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird.’ We had to read that too,” Fred supplies, taking the book and turning it over in his hands.

“You did?”

“Well,” Fred stops to laugh. “I never actually read the book. FP and I just watched the movie.”

Archie smiles, the kind of normal, young smile of a teenager who thinks they can get away with something. “There’s a movie?”

“Oh,” Fred says with a laugh. “Oh, no. You,” he emphasizes, “are reading the book.”

“You didn’t,” Archie plays back.

“Tell you what, once you finish it, I’ll read it. Deal?”

Archie pouts. “That doesn’t seem like a fair deal. You don’t have to write a paper on it or anything.”

Fred laughs. “That’s because I’ve paid my dues. I never have to do anything for a grade ever again.”

Archie rolls his eyes, and Fred pats his shoulder, gripping the crutches and standing again. “You’ll get there, son. This’ll all be over before you know it.”

Mary’s awake when he re-enters his room, relying more and more on the crutches with every step. He sits down heavily on the side of the bed, and Mary swings her legs around to join him. She rubs his shoulder gently. “You really need to stop walking around,” he murmurs into his ear.

Fred looks at her. “I’ve got to get moving around sooner or later.”

“Later,” she says, sitting up straight. “The doctor said later.” She gets up off the bed, moving towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

Mary looks at her watch. “We’ve gotta change your bandage. The doctor said every 24 hours.”

Fred looks sympathetically at Mary. “You… you don’t have to do that. I can do it myself. They showed me how.”

Mary shakes her head firmly. “They showed me how too. I’ll be right back.”

While she’s gone, Fred takes the chance to shift his back against the headboard, groaning as he uses his hands to help bring his right leg up. He’s briefly incredibly angry, clenching his jaw and his fists so he doesn’t yell out. The thought that he can’t even sit up in bed without help makes him want to scream.

He doesn’t though, because Mary returns, gauze and pills and a croissant in her arms.

“Where did that come from?” Fred nods to the plate. He doesn’t know why he asked. He knows the answer.

“Alice,” they say together. Fred rolls his eyes and laughs.

“Lay back,” Mary instructs, emptying her arms on the dresser. She brings the gauze and tape to Fred’s bedside.

Fred does as he’s told, adjusting his head on the pillow, wincing as he goes.

Mary rubs the hair from his forehead. “I’ll get you something for the pain as soon as we’re done, I promise.”

Fred closes his eyes. “It’s okay.” He unbuttons the bottom buttons of his shirt, allowing Mary to do the rest. Her cold fingers on his side against the white hot pain make him shudder. He grips the sheets with his left hand in hopes that Mary doesn’t notice.

If she does, she doesn’t say anything. She’d always been good at that, Fred thinks. At knowing when to leave Fred alone with his pain, and when to push. He thinks about the countless nights he’d come home from the site, limping or wincing at the twist of his back. Mary had always known when to rub his shoulders and ask what happened, and when to leave it be, to quietly bring a ice pack to bed and settle it on his hip.

He turns his head now to see Mary kneeling next to the bed, hesitating to pull the tape from the current bandage off of his stomach.

“It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt that bad,” he lies. “Just pull it off.”

Mary doesn’t look at him, eyes still fixed on the bandage, but she laughs. “If you say so.”

So she does, trying her best to get the tape around the gauze off gently, without pulling off any hair.

Fred’s grasps the sheets again and grits his teeth and tries to swallow down the vague sense of irritability that’s bubbling in his chest.  

When that’s over, Mary tosses the tape and removes the bandage, looking for the first time directly at the wound.

To be honest, Fred hasn’t really looked at it himself. He tries now to shift his neck so he can see it, but his stomach curls up and he figures he’ll try again later.

Mary, for her part, tries not to let the sudden inability to breath slow her down. She mumbles, “My God,” but throws the bandage away too, replacing it with fresh gauze that she’d cut off.

Fred’s clenching his jaw so hard he swears he can feel his teeth bending as Mary lays the new gauze down. She finishes quickly, setting it with tape the way the nurse had showed her. Fred doesn’t even realize it’s over til Mary reappears with the plate in her hands. She shoves the croissant towards him.

“Can I eat it later?” Fred pleads. His stomach is still turning, his head throbbing from his tight jaw.

“Honey, you’ve gotta take your meds now and you can’t take them on an empty stomach. Just eat half for me.”

Fred fights every screaming urge in his body and swallows the croissant, bite by bite, each one dry in his throat. He takes the pills quickly and tries to settle himself as he lays down, flat on his back. Mary’s almost out of the room when he realizes this wasn’t a good idea.

Mary, ever a mother, recognizes the face before Fred even has time to say anything. She brings the garbage can to his chin in one swift motion, wincing herself as Fred expels everything she’d just forced down his throat.

When he’s done, she wrings out a washcloth in the backroom and rests it on his neck, followed by his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

Fred has a vague, bitter sense to ask what for. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He’s the one that can’t stomach simple bread.

Mary holds the washcloth on Fred’s forehead, Fred silently grateful and the cool flows down his face. He gives a smile, or at least he tries to. “Tell Alice her croissant was no good,” he mumbles in an attempt to get a laugh.

He doesn’t see Archie peek his head in, obviously drawn to the room by the sound of retching.

Mary looks up at him though, a sympathetic smile on her face. She wipes the water droplets from Fred’s face and checks that Fred’s actually asleep now. She tosses the washcloth in the bathroom sink on her way out, throwing her arm securely around Archie’s neck. “Come on sweetie,” she says, brushing the hair from his face. “Let’s go get dinner ready.”


	8. Chapter 8

Jughead returns as expected, bringing Betty and Veronica with him. Mary’s already expecting it; Jughead texted Archie to let him know. Mary joins them for dinner, indulging on the one of the lasagnas Alice Cooper brought.

“Thank your mother again for me, Betty,” Mary says.

Betty swallows a bite, responding with a smile. “I will. She said to tell you when you’re out, she’ll bring more.”

What she had really said was, ‘Don’t let Fred eat Mary Andrews’ cooking. That’ll be worse than the bullet wound in his side.’ But she decided to leave that part out.

They all end up staying the night, Jughead intentionally, the girls by convenience. Veronica calls her mother to let her know, ignoring the frustrated sighs she hears from her father in the background.

Truth be told, it’s the first good night’s sleep anyone in the Andrews house, Fred and Mary included, has gotten since the shooting. Something about the togetherness, the ease with which they can reach out and touch one another, confirm that they’re all really there, lulls them off to sleep.

Fred doesn’t awaken until the morning, when he hears quiet rustling from his son’s room. He looks over to see Mary no longer in the bed they’d decided to temporarily share, much to Vegas’ disapproval. He laughs when he sees Vegas curled up on the bed in her place.

He pats the dog on the head and starts for his crutches when Mary comes back up. “Morning, sunshine,” she says brightly.

Fred offers his best tired smile. He’d forgotten Mary was a morning person. He’d also forgotten that it annoyed the daylights out of him.

“Morning,” he mumbles. He reaches for the crutches again when Mary swats his hand away.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Fred freezes, because he actually doesn’t know. He does know that he needs to look at something besides the four walls of his bedroom. He settles for, “I want to go downstairs.”

“Fred, you can’t exert yourself that much yet.”

“They’re just stairs, Mary. Staying up here is just…,” he hesitates, “making me feel worse.”

At first, Mary can’t tell if he’s just saying that or if he actually means it, but the desperation on Fred’s face lets her know it’s genuine.

“Okay, okay,” Mary sighs. Fred gets settled on his crutches, using them to heave himself forward until their both at the top of the stairs. “You ready?”

Fred nods and Mary takes the crutches in her free hand, wrapping the other arm around around Fred, supporting him as they slowly descended the stairs.

By the time they got to the bottom, they were both breathless and Fred was dripping with sweat. He readjusts the crutches and moves to the couch, sinking into it. He looks around and asks, “Where’s Archie?”

“At the Cooper’s,” Mary supplies as she gives Fred a bowl of oatmeal and his meds.

Fred mouths his thanks and swallows the pills with a swig of water before starting on the oatmeal.

As if on cue, Archie enters through the front door, Betty at his heels.

“Dad,” he says, surprised to see his father downstairs. “What are you-,” He’s cut off my his mother, who shake her head. ‘Don’t ask,’ she doesn’t say.

Fred sits up straight. “Hey son, morning Betty.”

“Morning, Mr. Andrews. How are you feeling?”

Fred nods. “Alright,” Fred says with a smile. “What are you kids up to?”

“We we’re working on some homework at Betty’s house,” Archie offers.

“Yeah,” Betty continues, slipping off her shoes and taking the chair next to Fred. “We were all done so we thought we’d come by and see how you were doing. Maybe take another walk.”

Fred looks briefly confused, before finally noticing the photo album that Betty had in her hands.

He smiled as Archie sits on the other side of the couch, so Fred’s in the middle. He nods to the bowl of oatmeal. “Hey,” he nods to the bowl. “Eat that.”

“Yes, Dad,” Fred jokes.

Betty’s laugh causes Fred to turn. “Now,” he says, gesturing to the album. “Where were we?”

Betty opens the album the picture she asked Fred about when he was asleep, when she had first visited Fred in the hospital.

It’s a picture of Fred and Mary, and FP and Gladys, young and bright eyed, smiling ear to ear. They’re dressed up, Fred and FP in suits and bow ties, Mary and Gladys in floor length gowns.

“Was this prom?” Betty asks, pointing to the picture.

Fred nods. “I had to ask your mother four times before she agreed to go with me,” he says to Archie. “She thought prom was dumb.”

Mary, who had busied herself in the kitchen, suddenly poked her head through. “I didn’t think prom was dumb. I thought you were dumb,” she says with a laugh, winking at Fred.

Betty and Archie laughs, shocked. Fred rolls his eyes. “You loved me,” he returns. "FP and I spent weeks trying to convince Mary and Gladys to get hotel rooms afterward,” Fred started with a laugh.

Archie sticks out his tongue. “Ew, no, no. I do not want to hear about that.”

“Don’t worry, son,” Fred says, patting his son’s shoulder. “They didn’t go for it.”

Mary pokes her head out again. “We went bowling instead.”

“Bowling?” Archie raises his eyebrows.

Fred sighs playfully. “We were heartbroken.”

Betty smiles and turns the page, pointing to a picture of three babies sitting on the grass in the front yard of the Cooper’s house.

“Is that us?” Archie asks.

Fred nods. “Yep. You, Betty and Jughead. You all were thick as thieves, even before you could talk.”

“What was this for?” Betty asks, referring to the balloons and streamers in the background of the photo.

“It was your mother’s Fourth of July barbeque. You’re lucky that your mother didn’t put you all in matching outfits. She suggested it for every damn occasion.”

At some point during their walk down memory lane, Mary joined them in the living room, sitting on the arm of the couch, arm around her son. For the next hour, the Andrews parents allowed themselves to slip into the past, telling story after story of them and the Riverdale children through the years.

Hours later, when Betty had gone home, Fred found himself waking up on the couch. He rubbed his aching neck, standing with the support of the crutches. “Mary?” he called out. “Archie?”

He peers into the kitchen, only to find nobody in it. He’s about to try the backyard when he hears voices in the garage. He carefully takes on the stairs, his body screaming at him with every step. The voices get louder as he gets closer, until he can finally make them out.

It’s Veronica. And Jughead, and Betty. They’re all trying to get Archie’s attention.

They’re all gathered around the truck, the passenger door wide open. He can see Archie hunched over, moving his arms back and forth.

His son’s friends suddenly all become aware of his presence as he crutches closer, still showing his confusion in his furrowed brow and pursed lips.

Veronica meets him halfway down the pathway, offering her support with a hand on Fred’s back. “What’s going on?” he asks quietly.

Veronica leans in in an attempt to keep the others from hearing. “Archie’s trying to clean the truck.”

“Clean the…” he trails off. Why would Archie be cleaning the truck? Nothing’s wrong with the… oh. It hits him. He hadn’t seen the truck since being in the hospital. He feels a deep pang of guilt for not putting two and two together.

Archie, barreling down the streets of Riverdale, one hand on the wheel, the other pressed to Fred’s abdomen.

He’d bled out in that truck.

Archie was cleaning Fred’s blood.

Fred sucks in a breath as they get closer and the damage becomes clear. The entire left side is caked with blood. His blood. Archie’s in an old Riverdale U t-shirt and shorts, sweat dripping from his face, moving the sponge rhythmically back and forth across the seat.

Fred looks down when he hits a bucket on the driveway with his crutches, spilling some water and soap. It’s only then he realizes he’s barefoot. He doesn’t care.

“Archie,” he calls out from behind his son. “Archie, stop.”

It’s a demand, but its gentle. Archie doesn’t stop, Fred’s not even sure he can hear him. He looks back at Jughead and asks, “How did the truck get back here?”

“Sheriff Keller dropped it off,” Betty supplies. “Mrs. Andrews said she’d call someone tomorrow to pick it up and clean it… but Archie was already out here.”

“Where’s Mary?”

“She went to the store,” Veronica offers.

Jughead points to a wet spot on the pavement and indicates to Fred to be careful. “He’s been at it for an hour. We can’t get him to stop.”

Fred nods and moves closer to Archie, careful not to slip. “Archie,” he tries again.

Archie gives no indication of hearing him, instead simply continuing to run the sponge up and down the seat.

Finally, Fred reaches out and touches his son’s shoulder. Archie jumps and spins around, his eye and face red, looking like a deer in headlights.

Fred reaches for the sponge, removing it from Archie’s grip. He tosses it into the bucket. “Son, stop.”

Archie opens his mouth to speak, but the words come out dry. “I… I have to clean it.”

“We will,” Fred says, squeezing his son’s shoulder. “But not right now, okay? Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Fred moves to point Archie towards the door, but Archie shrugs his father off. “No. No, I have to clean it.”

Fred readjusts to face his son. “No, son. You don’t. We’ll take care of it later.”

“Yeah,” Jughead steps forward. “We’ll all help. But let’s go inside right now, okay buddy?”

Archie blinks. “Juggie?”

Jug smiles. “Hey,” he draws out. “There you are. Come on, let’s go.” Jughead starts for inside, Betty and Veronica behind him. They stop when the see Archie’s still frozen by Fred.

“Son,” Fred whispers into his ear. “You don’t have to do this.”

Archie turns sharply to face his father. “Dad, I…” he chokes.

Fred runs a hand through his son’s hair. “Shh, it’s okay. Let’s go inside. You must be freezing.”

Archie nods absently, following his friends in, his father trailing behind.

Fred takes one more look at his bloody mess of a truck, once more feeling the guilt envelop him. In his drug induced haze, he had forgotten about the truck. How could he let his son out there, freezing, scrubbing at his father’s blood? He swallows thickly and follows the kids inside, heart pounding inside his chest, determined to never let his son down again.


	9. Chapter 9

Betty and Veronica busy themselves with ushering Archie up the stairs for a warm shower and a change of clothes. Jughead, in the meantime, begins rummaging through the pantry.

Fred laughs. “We’re probably out of everything.”

Jughead peak his head around and smiles. “We’ll see what Mrs. Andrews brings back.”

Fred laughs but it quickly turns into a wince. He tries to hide it, but Jughead notices and peaks his head back from the pantry. “You’re not supposed to be up,” he says, matter-of-factly.

Fred smiles weakly. “Here I thought you were on my side.”

Jughead comes out of the pantry fully, shutting the door behind him. “I am on your side. That’s why I brought ‘Vertigo,” he said, nodding to his backpack resting on the counter. “Unless you’re not in the mood for Hitchcock.”

Fred laughs again, trying to ignore the sudden buzzing in his ears. “I’m always in the mood for Hitchcock," he forces out.

“Well, good. When Archie gets out of the shower we can hook my laptop up to the TV.”

Fred nods, the buzzing suddenly being accompanied by the sound of his heart pounding. He feels his hands trembling against the counter he’d been leaning against to keep himself up, looking down only for a dizzy spell to hit.

“Mr. A?” he hears Jughead call from what seems like a million miles away.

“Jug,” he gets out, looking up, trying to fight through the dizziness. “Jug, I don’t fee-…”

He’s out cold before he can finish the sentence.

“Mr. A!” Jughead scrambles to the floor, hurriedly looking for any bleeding before trying to shake his second father awake.

“Archie! Betty, Veronica! Get down here! We need help!”

Just as the three teens come rushing down the stairs, Jughead looks up to see Mary coming in through the front door, her fists full of grocery bags.

“Hey Jughead,” Mary calls. “What are you doing down-?” she cuts herself when she sees her husband passed out on the floor.

She drops the grocery bags without a second thought, apples rolling around the floor and a carton of eggs cracking.

She rushes to Fred’s side, meeting her son and his three friends at his feet.

Jughead doesn’t look up again, now focused on shaking Fred awake. “Mr. A! Mr. A!”

Mary joins in, moving around to Fred’s head, reaching for his arm to check his pulse. “Fred!” She turns to Archie, breath heavy and eyes wide. “Archie, call 911!”

Archie’s got the same terrified expression on his face as his mother. He’s shirtless from his shower, barefoot and clad only in Riverdale High athletic shorts. He nods emptily, running over to the landline on the wall.

Just as he gets the phone in his hand, he hears groaning and turns just in time to see his father starting to get up.

“No, no! Mr. Andrews, stay down!” Veronica says, putting her perfectly polished hand on Fred’s chest.

Fred tries to lift his head, looking around from person to person as Archie leans over to see for himself that his father was awake.

“Wha?” Fred slurs. “Arch?”

He reaches for his son, who reaches back. “Don’t worry Dad, we’re calling the ambulance. They’ll be here soon.”

“No!” Fred bolts up again, this time stopped by Mary’s hand. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

“Dad-,” Archie starts.

“Okay, Fred. It’s okay. I’ll drive. But we do need to go to the hospital,” Mary says gently.

“No hospital. I’m fine, really.” He blinks up at the faces staring down at him, locking eyes with Jughead. “I’m sorry, Jug.” Fred’s voice is barely there. “I must’ve scared you.”

Jughead, who’d moved with Veronica to picking up the spilled apples and broken eggs, leans over to Fred and gives a goofy ring. “Hey, I can handle Hitchcock. I can handle anything.” He continues picking up the groceries, tucking away the sheer terror he felt, vowing to never let Mr. Andrews know how he really felt.

“Mr. Andrews,” Betty starts from Fred’s side. “Do you think you can get up?”

Fred harrumphs weakly. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do before you guys stopped me.”

Mary lets her tense shoulders sag slightly as she laughs. “You’re too old to whine, Fred. It doesn’t suit you.” She slides her arm around Fred’s shoulder as she and Betty help him sit up, Archie spotting from behind. “I’ll bring the car around,” she adds, grabbing the keys and slipping out to the garage.

Fred adjusts himself, so his back is up against the island, legs out. It’s only then that he starts to feel the pain in his side make himself known. He wraps his arm around his wound as Archie brings in his shoes.

Veronica and Betty finish cleaning up the groceries just as Archie and Jughead get Fred standing. Fred feels that anger that he’s becoming all too familiar with rise in his chest again. His kids shouldn’t have to be doing this, to be taking care of him, to literally be picking him up off of the floor.

“I don’t need a hospital,” he tries, but it comes out scratchy and weak.

He doesn’t see Archie and Jughead lock eyes, sharing a look that only they understand. “It’s okay, Dad. Just to make sure you’re okay. Do it for me.”

Fred sighs as much as he can without it hurting. ‘Anything for you’ goes unsaid. He’d do anything for Archie. Archie knows it.

Fred often feels like he hasn’t done much good in his life, but he knows damn well he raised his son to be a good man.

The sound of Mary’s rental car honking outside send the anger at himself and pride at his son simmering down.

“Ready?” Archie prods gently.

Fred nods, bracing himself for going down the porch steps.

Betty and Veronica follow behind, Betty carrying Fred’s crutches and tossing them in the trunk.

“Jug, you should go with so you can tell the doctor what happened,” Betty suggests. “We’ll meet you there.”

“You really don’t have to do that,” Fred objects, but he’s cut off by a peck on the cheek.

“Nonsense,” Veronica says, wiping the lipstick stain she’s left behind on Fred’s face. “I’ve already texted Smithers, he’ll be here soon.”

Once Archie’s got Fred settled in the front seat, he joins Jughead in the back, nodding to the girls. “See you soon,” he says as Mary pulls out of the driveway.

Fred’s dozing off by the time they arrive at the hospital. Mary brings out a wheelchair that Fred vehemently refuses to sit in, settling his crutches at his side.

He tries not to think about how he looks, every bit as weak and pathetic as he feels. He’s still in his pajamas- not his usual sleepwear, he’s wearing a flannel- he can’t put on a t-shirt yet, but the checkered pajama pants Mary bought for Archie to give him on Father’s Day when Archie was four are from his usual collection.

He’s not sure Archie even remembers doing it. He thinks kids start remembering things around that age. His own first memory is somewhere around then too, being comforted by Oscar after he’d falling off his tricycle. Who falls off a tricycle?

Mary’s voice ushers him back to reality. She rushes them inside, and Fred automatically drifts over to the waiting area.

He hasn’t been in this emergency room in a while. He’d brought Archie here most recently, when he’d dislocated his shoulder during a football game freshman year.

He’d even come here with FP once, when he’d been so drunk that he’d become unconscious, barely breathing. Gladys had called him panicked, screaming into the phone that 'FP was drinking, he’s been drinking but he’s never been like this. I don’t think he’s breathing!'

He’d been the one to call the ambulance Gladys was inconsolable. The doctor had taken one whiff of FP and known right then that he had alcohol poisoning. He tried not to yell once FP’d woken up after getting his stomach pumped. He’d leave that to Gladys. Somewhere in the midst of that yelling, she’d told him she was pregnant with their first child.

The time before that was the worst. That had been the time… That had been the time Ellen, a nurse at Riverdale General, had called him at 2:07 in the morning to inform him that his brother had been in a car accident and he should come quickly. He remembers hearing his mother sobbing in the background, as Ellen continuously shifted her attention from Fred on the phone and his mother.

_She’s not in a place to talk, Fred. Just get here as soon as you can._

His father had died in this hospital just over a year ago. He hadn’t been prepared to lose the two most important men in his life so close together.

He’d met the doctor in the emergency room, who’d quickly moved them to the surgical waiting room. That same doctor had returned hours later, and Fred had taken one look at him and known.

His brother was brain dead, the doctor explained. No chance for recovery.

Oscar was an organ donor. He’d save four lives after crushing Fred’s.

“Mr. Andrews,” he hears a voice call.

He blinks to see Jughead standing in front of him, concern written all over his face. “They wanna take you back.”

Archie and jughead follow the nurse to a private room, followed shortly after by Mary who’d been filling out the insurance information.

Fred’s settled on the bed, feet dangling off the side when Dr. Masters comes in.

He shakes everyone’s hands, laughing in an attempt to lighten the mood. “I like you, Fred, but I wasn’t hoping to see you this soon,” he jokes.

Fred offers a smile in return. “You’re telling me.”

Dr. Masters motions for Fred to lay on the hospital bed, discreetly helping him get his legs up. “So,” he says as he starts examining him, “tell me what happened.”

Jughead starts to explain. “We were just talking in the kitchen…”

Dr. Masters interrupts. “The kitchen? I thought we said no walking around, Fred.”

Mary raises her eyebrows at Fred playfully.

“I just needed a change of scenery,” Fred defends himself.

Dr. Masters laughs and nods at Jughead to continue. “I was looking for something to eat so I wasn’t facing him and we were talking about movies and then he started to say that he didn’t feel good. After that he just… fell down.”

“Any shaking? Jerking movements?”

“No, he was out cold.”

Dr. Masters puts the penlight he was shining in Fred’s eyes away. “Well, we’ll get a scan of your head and take some blood just to be sure, but everything looks okay to me right now. We’ll talk some more once we get the scan back, okay? Just hang tight.”

Fred nods tersely before turning to the boys. “Why don’t you two go get something to eat? You never got anything to eat, Jug.”

Jughead laughs at pats Fred on the shoulder. “Yeah, sounds good, Mr. A. You coming, Arch?”

Archie, who hadn’t said much since they arrived, shook his head. “No, I’ll stay here.”

Mary, sensing Fred’s desperation, chimes in. “You should go, Arch. Get something to eat before you pass out too. I can’t have both Andrews in the hospital,” she said, squeezing her son’s hand.

Archie reluctantly follows Jughead out of the room. Fred lets them get out of earshot before turning to Mary and saying, “I can’t afford another scan.”

“Fred, we’ll work it out. Don’t worry about the money.” Mary knew this was coming eventually. Leave it to Fred to be ever practical.

“I have to worry about the money, Mary. Who knows what my hospital bill is up to now. Another scan is what, another two thousand? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“You let me worry about the money, Fred. All that matters is that you’re okay. Just try not to worry about that.”

Suddenly finding himself too drained to argue, Fred simply nods and leans his head back, sinking into the pillow.

Mary leans over and rubs her thumb over Fred’s forehead, something she used to do when they were together, and Fred was feeling anxious.

It lulls him to sleep in seconds, just like it always did.


	10. Chapter 10

Fred rouses when the tech comes to take him for a scan but doesn’t full awaken. In his fitful sleep, he manages to be thankful for the morphine drip the nurse inserted into his veins upon his arrival. 

By the time he returns, he’s more than semi-conscious and aware that Betty and Veronica have joined his family in the room. 

“How’d it go?” Betty asks anxiously, biting at the skin around her thumb. She’s standing next to Jughead, who’s got his arm casually around her shoulder. 

“So far so good,” the tech wheeling Fred’s bed into the room says. “The doctor will take a look and be in in a little bit.”

Archie and Mary occupy the chairs in the room, on either side of the bed. Veronica stands behind Archie, hand on his shoulder, watching as he shakes his leg and wrings his hands together anxiously. “It’s taking forever,” he mumbles. “They shouldn’t make people wait this long.”

“You know,” Veronica starts as the tech leaves, “my neighbor in New York used to work in an emergency room. He always said that the longer it takes, the better it is. If they keep you waiting, then it’s probably nothing that bad.”

“He got shot, Veronica,” Archie bites back, whipping his head around to look at her. “Of course, it’s that bad.”

“Archie,” Mary starts to scold, but Fred puts a subtle hand out to stop her. 

“Son,” Fred tries, shifting his head to look at Archie. “Veronica’s right. It’s how hospitals work.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” Archie spits out, unfettered. 

Betty opens her mouth to respond, but can’t quite find the words, so the room settles into awkward silence until Dr. Masters reappears. 

“Good news,” he says as he shuts the door behind him. “Scan and bloodwork are normal.” 

Fred breathes a quick sigh of relief, before furrowing his brows and opening his mouth to ask the question that everybody was thinking. 

Archie beats him too it. “So then why did he pass out?” he asks with a slight attitude. He was clearly still elevated. 

“Well,” Dr. Masters says with a sigh. “When we spoke outside, Mr. Jones was telling me that you went out and saw your truck,” he says to Fred. 

“I- uh, yeah,” Fred sputters. “But what does that have to do with me fainting?”

“Well, what I think happened is what’s called a vasovagal response.”

“A what?” Mary asks. 

“It’s an extreme physical response to an emotional trigger,” Dr. Masters explains. “I understand the truck isn’t exactly clean yet?”

Dr. Masters looks around to room for confirmation, finding it in nods from Jughead and Betty. 

“I think seeing the trunk with your blood on it caused a very strong, delayed reaction. That, coupled with the exhaustion from walking around, which you shouldn’t be doing,” Dr. Masters emphasizes with pointed eyebrows, “is what led to you passing out.”

“So, what happens now?” Betty asks. “How do we make sure this doesn’t happen again?”

“Well, like I’ve been saying, rest is the most important. I don’t want you exerting yourself at all until you come see me for your follow up on Monday. And I understand the truck is getting cleaned tomorrow?”

Mary nods. “They’re going to reupholster it.”

Dr. Masters nods. “Good, that’s good.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “But there is one more thing.”

Fred looks at him expectantly, with an inkling of what’s he about to say. 

“I know you talked to Melody,” Dr. Masters says hesitantly. He doesn’t know if talking about this in front of Fred’s family.

“I know,” Fred nods, cutting him off. “I’ll give her a call.”

That’s enough for Dr. Masters to know not to say anymore on the matter. “Great,” he says instead. “So, I think you’re all set to go. The nurse will come in and get you discharged, alright?”

“Yeah, thanks doc,” Fred says, shaking Dr. Masters’ hand. 

“Great, I’ll see you on Monday then. You all take care,” he says as he leaves the room. 

Dr. Masters’ exit leaves the room once again is an awkward silence. 

“This is my fault,” Archie says suddenly. 

Fred, who’s sitting up now, legs hanging off the side again, swallows his own guilt before speaking. “No, son. You did nothing wrong.”

“How can you say that?” Archie stands up, his face a combination of fear and anger. “I’m the one that was cleaning the truck! I’m the reason you went out there!”

“Archie, no. We would’ve had to clean the truck at some point,” Jughead supplies gently. 

“No, no,” Archie mumbles, shoving his palms into his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he says, looking wildly from one person to the next. “This whole thing is my fault. You got shot because of me,” he says, thrusting his arm at his dad. 

“Arch, kiddo, we talked about this. This is not your fault,” he speaks slowly, hoping Archie can hear his every word. 

“You keep saying that, but I know it’s not true!” 

“It is, son. I swear to you,” Fred pleads. He stands carefully, reaching tenderly to his son. 

“No, no! I- God! I can’t do this,” Archie yells as he backs out of the room. “I- I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He swings the door open and runs out, barely missing the nurse as she enters the room. 

“Archie!” Fred shouts after him, making to follow him out. 

Mary reaches out to him and stops him. “Maybe, just, give him a minute, okay?” 

Fred blinks at her blankly, trying to stop the tears from falling. “I-,” he starts. 

“It’s okay, I’ll go check on him,” Jughead offers. “I’ll meet you all at the car.”

Jughead leaves and Nurse Lauren takes her cue to get Fred Andrews discharged quickly. Once they’re finished, Mary leaves to pull the car around, leaving Fred with Betty and Veronica. Fred settles on the bench just outside the ER doors, Betty leaning her chin on the crutches she holding. 

She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket and reaches to pull it out, a motion that catches Fred’s eye as he turns to face her, fear and sadness heavy in his eyes. 

“That was Jughead,” Betty supplies. “He says to go on ahead without them. They’re gonna go to Pop’s.”

“He’s with Archie?” Veronica asks before Fred gets the chance to. 

Betty nods. “Yeah, he caught up with him just outside the hospital. He says not to worry. They’ll be home soon.”

Just then, Mary pulls around and the girls move to help Fred into the front seat. Unbeknownst to then, nurse Lauren watches them leave from the nurses’ station. She’d have to remember to tell Melody that maybe she should give the Andrews’ family another call.


	11. Chapter 11

The drive home is bleak. Dark clouds had filled the sky, bringing rain pouring down halfway through the ride.

Veronica and Betty part ways shortly after they arrive to the Andrews’ home, both walking to Betty’s house as Veronica waits for Smithers to come get her.

Mary doesn’t give Fred an option, but instead wordlessly directly a barely standing Fred up the stairs and into bed.

Mary swears he’s asleep before they even make it down the hallway to the bedroom. He lets his head rest against Mary’s, one arm thrown loosely over her shoulder. It’s taking all her strength to hold him up, but he still manages to keep the other arm wrapped protectively around his waist.

He groans as she lifts his legs into the bed and slides his shoes off. He lets her pull the covers over him, and just as she goes to slip quietly out of the room, she hears Fred call out to her.

“I think Archie needs therapy,” he whispers, eyes still closed, lips barely moving.

Mary comes back to the bed, running her hand through Fred’s hair. “I know, honey. And we’ll get it for him. But just rest right now. We’ll talk about it when Archie gets home.”

Fred leans into Mary’s touch and hums in response. She gets up slowly to leave when she feels Fred’s hand on her arm.

“Stay, please,” he slurs.

She does.

* * *

Mary’s just about to doze off herself when she hears the front door open. Quietly, she slides off the bed and makes her way down the stairs, making sure she doesn’t make too much noise with her sock-clad feet.

Fred’s always made fun of her for having loud footsteps.

She locks eyes with Jughead, who stands with his hands in his pockets behind Archie. He gives her a look that says, ‘I tried.’

“Hey, you boys hungry? Or did you get dinner at Pop’s?”

“I ate,” Jughead says, “but Archie didn’t.”

“I’ll make you a sandwich.” Mary starts off towards the kitchen.

Archie rocks on the balls of his feet. “Actually, I’m not that hungry. I’m just gonna go take a shower and go to bed.”

Mary looks at Jughead again, who’s face tells her not to push it. “Well, okay, honey. But let me know if you change your mind. Are you staying the night, Jug?”

“Nah, I promised my dad I’d spend the night at the trailer. He was actually hoping to come by tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“Of course, it is. Will we be seeing you both for breakfast?”

Jughead laughs. “Count on it.”

With that, he says goodbye, leaving Archie and Mary alone together in the kitchen.

“I’m just gonna-,” Archie starts, pointing at the stairs.

“Okay, sweetheart,” Mary says gently with a smile.

He makes it halfway up the stairs before he stops and comes back down.

“Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry,” Archie says quietly, shame in his voice.

Mary moves around the island and embraces her son tightly. “Oh, honey, you don’t have anything to be sorry for. It’s okay to be angry.”

“I didn’t mean to yell at dad,” Archie says into his mom’s shoulder.

“I know you didn’t. He knows that too. Arch, he’s not mad at you, he’s worried about you. I am too.”

Archie doesn’t say anything in response, but instead hugs his mom tighter and lets the tears that have been welling in his eyes fall as they man.

They stand there for what feels like hours before Archie lets go. “I should go take a shower,” he says meekly.

Mary wipes the remaining tears from his eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “Okay, honey. Let me know if you want anything to eat.”

Mary follows behind Archie minutes later, returning upstairs with a bowl of soup for Fred to find his eyes drifting open.

“Morning,” he mumbles.

Mary laughs. “It’s 6 in the evening.”

That makes Fred smile. “I’m old and hurt. I don’t know what time it is.”

Mary rolls her eyes as she collects Fred’s pills from the bottle and hand them to him with a glass of water.

He takes them all at once and moves on to the soup, smiling his thanks.

“Have you heard from Archie?” Fred asks in between sips.

“He got home just a few minutes ago. He’s taking a shower.”

Fred looks up and Mary sees the guilt in his eyes. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, honey, he’s okay. He said he was sorry for yelling at you.”

“He doesn’t need to be sorry,” Fred says too forcefully, wincing at the sudden sharp pain the exclamation causes. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

“Easy,” Mary soothes. “I know, that’s what I told him.”

“I just don’t know what to do. I feel like he just feels worse every time he sees me.”

“That’s not true, Fred.”

Fred sets the soup carefully on his lap and leans his head back against the headboard. “It is.” He looks up desperately at Mary. “I don’t know how to stop him from feeling guilty.”

Mary purses her lips, choosing her next words carefully. “It seems like that’s something you both have in common.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Fred. I can see it on your face. You feel just as guilty as Archie does every time you look at him.”

“Of course, I do,” Fred resigns. “This is something he’s going to have to deal with for the rest of his life because of me.”

“Yes, it is,” Mary says, matter-of-factly.

Fred looks up at her, surprised at her tone, so she continues. “He’s going to carry this with him for the rest of his life, but the alternative would have been that his life ended. He would be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“Stop,” Fred says quietly. Mary’s words make him feel physically ill. He hands the bowl of soup back to Mary. Looking at it suddenly makes him want to vomit.

Mary sets the bowl on the dresser before sitting at the foot of the bed. “Honey, you have to help yourself before you can help Archie. He deserves you at your best, but you can’t blame yourself if you’re not there yet. You need to give yourself time to recover.”

“Yeah,” Fred mouths.

“It’ll take time, for both of you. But we’ll get him the help he needs,” she says, leaning over to kiss his forehead. “And we’ll get you the help you need.”

Fred gives her a half smile when they hear Archie’s shower turn off. “I should go talk to him,” he says, eyeing the door.

Mary laughs, setting his crutches so that they’re leaning on the bed, easy for Fred to reach. “Let him get dressed first.”

Fred heeds Mary’s advice, giving Archie a few minutes to settle in before hauling himself out of bed.

Being alone, he allows himself to freely grimace as he accidently pulls his side. He hesitates for a moment, before deciding to give Archie some more time and head into his own bathroom.

Fred stands in front of the bathroom mirror, reaching his arms awkwardly around the crutches holding him up to lift up his shirt.

He takes a deep breath and pulls the shirt up to his chest, looking for the first time at the wound that got him into this mess.

The bulky white bandage is secure thanks to Mary’s tape job, covering most of the actual damage. But what he didn’t expect to see was the large dark bruise that had formed around the bandage.

He presses at it weakly, but it sends a world of hurt up his spine. He sighs and lets the flannel fall back to cover the wound. He takes a good look at himself in his mirror, his first real time since the shooting.

He’s shocked to see how pale he is, how his eyes and cheeks are sunken in. No wonder Archie gets upset when he sees him. He reaches up to fix his hair, but even lifting his left arm above his head makes his body ache.

He sighs at the mirror but slowly crutches out, making his way towards Archie’s room.

He can hear the soft sounds of the video game Archie and Jughead play coming through the door. It makes him smile as he raps on the door.

“Come in!”

“Hey, son,” Fred says as he enters the room and tosses some of Archie’s clothes off the chair next to his bed, sitting down once it’s cleared off.

“Hey,” Archie says quietly, looking at his feet but turning to face his father.

“How was Pop’s?”

“Fine. Jug got a burger.”

“You didn’t?”

Archie shrugs. “Wasn’t hungry,” he mumbles.

Fred hums. “I, uh,” he pauses to clear his throat. “I was hoping we could talk about what happened today.”

“Dad, I’m sorry,” Archie starts.

Fred cuts him off. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, son. That’s what I’m trying to say. You’re allowed to feel however you feel about this whole thing.”

“I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” Archie says meekly.

“You didn’t,” Fred starts as he shifts in the seat. “I’ve been doing enough of that on my own.”

Archie looks up suddenly. “You have? Why? You didn’t do anything.”

Fred shrugs. “Son, this isn’t what I wanted for you. To have to worry about me like this.”

Archie furrows his brows in confusion. “You feel guilty for needing help? Everybody needs help.”

Fred gives a small smile. “Well, I’m supposed to be taking care of you. Not the other way around.”

“That doesn’t mean that you’re not allowed to ask for help.”

“You’re allowed to ask for help, too, son,” Fred supplies quietly.

Archie smiles uncomfortably. “I don’t need help with anything, Dad.”

“Son, what happened today with the truck…”

“I shouldn’t have gone out there. I just wanted to clean it up.”

Fred can tell Archie’s starting to get defensive, but this is a conversation they need to have, so he pressures on. “Arch, you really scared us out there.”

“I said I’m sorry, Dad! I didn’t mean-…”

“I know you didn’t mean to. That’s my point, Archie. This whole… shitshow… it’s affecting you. It’s affecting all of us. We could all use some help.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, Arch, that I think we should get you set up with a therapist. I talked with a woman in the hospital… a social worker. She said to give her a call when we needed her. Son… I think we need her.”

“I don’t need…” Archie’s words get caught in his throat. He really doesn’t want to cry again.

“Hey,” Fred starts softly. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hell, I think this whole town could use a therapist. And you bet your ass I’ll go down and see one too, soon as I’m better.”

Archie nods and gives a watery, slightly bitter laugh. “I was really scared, Dad. I thought I was going to lose you.”

“I know,” Fred mumbles, lifting himself up from the chair and limping heavily without his crutches to join Archie on the bed. “I know. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”


	12. Chapter 12

Archie does eat, eventually. He and Fred sit in comfortable silence for a while, Fred limping back to the chair while Archie pulls out his homework. The silence is occasionally broken when Archie asks a question about how to spell something. Fred stops reading the old Red Circle comic he found on Archie’s floor with a smile and helps his son out.

The silence is permanently broken when Mary knocks softly on the door, offering her son a sandwich. “It looks like you boys are working hard in here,” she says as she sits next to Archie on his bed.

“I’m working hard,” Archie says, looking up from his assignment with a playful smile. “He’s hardly working.”

Fred laughs heartily. “No arguments here. But it’s getting late, Arch. You should get to bed.”

“It’s Sunday tomorrow, Dad,” Archie says as he rolls his eyes, still smiling.

Fred breathes a sigh of relief. This is the closest Archie’s gotten to being his regular self since the shooting.

“Still,” Mary cuts in. “Jughead and FP are coming for breakfast tomorrow, so it’ll be an early morning.”

Fred raises his eyebrows. “FP is coming for breakfast?”

Archie’s interest is peaked. “Is that weird?” he asks his father.

“Well,” Fred says with a laugh. “FP’s not much of a morning person. This is gonna be fun,” he says to Mary.

Mary swats at him. “Oh, be nice. You’re no better in the mornings,” she chides.

“Not as bad as FP.”

Mary laughs and turns to Archie. “Your dad would wake FP up in the mornings by banging pots and pans. It drove him nuts.”

“That would drive me nuts too,” Archie says, laughing. “Thanks for not doing that to me.”

“Huh,” Fred says with a playful smile. “That gives me an idea…”

Archie laughs and gently tosses a pillow at his father, who catches it in his good hand.

“Alright, boys, stop it before I ground you both,” Mary says smiling, putting the pillow back on Archie’s bed. “Both of you need to get to bed.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna finish this real quick,” Archie says, gesturing to his English homework.

Mary nods and kisses Archie on the top of the head. “Sounds good, honey. Goodnight.”

“’Night, Mom. ‘Night, Dad.”

Fred takes the hand Mary’s offered and stands, taking the crutches Mary gives him. He leans over gently and pats Archie gently on the shoulder. “’Night, Arch. Don’t work too hard.”

Fred crutches slowly behind Mary to the bedroom, collapsing not-so-subtly on the bed as Mary busied herself in the bathroom. “You two have a good talk?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Fred breathed as he settled under the covers. Mary moves to help him but quickly gets waved off. “He agreed to talk to someone.”

Mary, having slipped into her own pajamas, joins Fred in the bed as she finishes rubbing lotion into her hands. “Good,” she nods. “That’ll be good for him. You too.”

Fred nods into the pillow, blinking slowly. “Yeah,” he hums.

Mary reaches over to turn off the lamp before kissing Fred on the forehead and brushing his hair back. “Get some sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

“Okay,” he mouths, but no sound actually comes out.

They’re both asleep in minutes.

Fred awakens the next morning to the sound of chatting and the smell of bacon. His stomach growls and Fred can’t help but be relieved. It’s the first time he’d felt hungry in weeks. He’s just about the sit up and reach for his crutches when the door bursts open, revealing FP Jones clan in a blue and white checkered apron covering his t-shirt and jeans.

“Rise and shine, sleepy head!” FP says playfully, handing Fred a plate of toast and eggs.

Fred pouts dramatically back at him. “I smell bacon.”

FP clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “Doctor said no heavy food until after your follow up. Sorry, Freddy.”

Fred sighs and takes a bite of the toast, grateful that it doesn’t make him feel like he wants to puke.

“Good?” FP asks.

Fred nods in between bites. “Are you on drugs?” he asks suddenly with a sly smile.

FP furrows his brows, so Fred continues. “You’re awake and responsive and it’s only-,” he pauses to look at the clock on his nightstand. “9 am.”

FP lets out a loud and free laugh. “Man, Freddy, those meds made you funny.” He takes a piece of scrambled egg from Fred’s plate and pops it in his mouth. “How could I not be awake? Somebody’s gotta make this house breakfast. Lord knows it shouldn’t be Mary.”

That makes Fred laugh. “Is Jug here?”

FP nods. “He and Archie are watching the bacon for me, make sure it doesn’t burn.”

“Okay,” Fred says with a joking smile. “Now I really know you’re on drugs. Trusting those two in the kitchen?”

“You do have a point there. I better get back down there.”

FP turns to leave, but Fred stops him. “Hand me the crutches, would you? I’ll come with you.”

FP wags a finger at him. “No way. Mary told me what happened yesterday.”

“Mary exaggerates,” Fred harrumphs. “Come on, you’re really going to leave me up here to miss all the fun?”

FP sighs in resignation. “Fine. But if you pass out again, I’m not driving you to the hospital.”

FP helps Fred get adjusted on the crutches and stays non-discreetly behind him until he gets to the stairs, then takes the crutches in his hand and wraps Fred’s arm around his shoulder, helping him down.

Mary, who’s manning the bacon that the kids have since abandoned, sighs and rolls her eyes at the sight. “Were you not there yesterday when the doctor told you no walking around?”

“I wasn’t,” FP pipes up.

Mary swats him with a towel as they switch places, FP taking the bacon off the stove and Mary helping Fred setting into the couch.

“Where’d the boys go?” Fred asks after a wince. He ignores the look Mary gives him.

“They took Vegas out around the block.”

Fred hums. “He’s been cooped up for too long, poor dog.”

Mary shrugs. “He’s okay. He just likes to be around you more than anything.”

FP laughs as he plates the bacon for Mary and the boys. “Who would’a thunk? Freddy and a dog?”

Mary doles out Fred’s medication, which he swallows in one go. They enjoy a comfortable silence until they hear the front door open and the patting of paws on the hardwood.

Vegas makes a beeline for Fred, tail wagging and tongue hanging out. Fred pats the spot on the couch next to him, and Vegas jumps up, settling his head on Fred’s lap.

“Good boy,” Fred coaxes.

Archie and Jug enter the kitchen, but they stop in his tracks when he sees Fred on the couch.

“Was I the only one listening when they said no moving around yesterday?” Jughead asks, concern mixed with a playful smile.

“Yeah, dad,” Archie says as he approaches the couch.

Fred puts out his hands in defense. “I won’t get up off this couch, I promise.”

Jughead nods and moves for the bacon, but Archie eyes his dad for a little longer with eyebrows raised. He nods finally and turns to join Jughead for breakfast.

Jughead eats quickly, like always, the part of his brain that says he’s got to eat his food before someone takes it away is still ever-present. He finishes before Archie, moseying over to Fred and Vegas.

“What’s all that?” Fred asks, nodding to a stack of papers on the table across from him.

Jughead peers over, thumbing through them. “Looks like mail.”

“I took care of the important stuff,” Mary calls from her place in the kitchen. “Bills and all that. That’s just the stuff that I wasn’t sure you wanted or not.”

Fred waves for Jughead to bring them over, which he does, sitting on the edge of the coffee table.

“I can do that,” Jughead says, nodding to the mail as Fred reaches over with a groan and begins sorting through it.

“Nah,” Fred looks up with his best fatherly grin. “Makes me feel useful,” he half-jokes.

Jug stays anyway, watching Fred move through the pile when something catches his eye. He pulls out a magazine from the bottom of the stack and holds it up so Fred can see. “Never too you for a ‘People’ guy, Mr. A.”

Fred looks confused for a minute before breaking into a laugh. “I’m not. That’s Alice’s. George must’ve put it in the wrong mailbox.”

“George?” Archie asks from his seat at the dining table, mouth still full of eggs.

“The mailman,” Fred offers.

“You know the mailman by name?” Jug asks.

“Yeah. He’s good people. Leaves us a Christmas card every year.”

“How very small town of you,” Jug says sarcastically, moving the magazine to the side.

“Take that over to the Cooper’s when you get a chance,” Fred says.

FP laughs as he enters the living room. “It’s an old family habit,” he says as he pats his son on the shoulder. “Artie Andrews used to invite the old mailman over for Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve dinner. What was his name? John something?”

“Jack Milford,” Fred fills in, not looking up from the mail he’s sorting.

FP gestures to an unseeing Fred and gives his son a look that says, ‘See?’

“Oh, hey,” FP says suddenly. “Remind me to have you call Gladys later today. She’s been asking about you. Jellybean too.”

Fred finally looks up. “You told Jellybean?”

“Just that you were in an accident,” Jughead supplies. “She overheard Mom and I talking. Wanted to mail you something so you’d feel better.”

Fred gives a half-smile. “That’s very nice. I’ll have to thank her.”

Fred gives a breathy laugh. He and Jellybean had a relationship like no other. The young girl had grown up in the thick of FP and Gladys’ marital problem, so both Jones children spent quite a few nights at the Andrews’ before Gladys took Jellybean to Toledo.

She calls him ‘Uncle Fred’, because for the first seven years of her life, she thought FP and Fred were brothers. She never understood why Jughead called him ‘Mr. A.’ Nobody ever had the heart to correct her.

She’d figured it out eventually, but the name was permanent.

Fred blinks away the memory. “Hey,” he says to Jug. “We never watched ‘Vertigo.’

“Right you are,” Jughead says playfully. “Good think I brought my computer. What do you say, Dad? You want in on movie day?”

“Oh, you better believe,” FP says, pulling up a chair and propping his feet on the coffee table. “Although I don’t know, Freddy. We don’t want you screaming like a little girl.”

Fred laughs as Mary and Archie join them, meeting Archie’s gaze with a smile. “Oh, come on, FP. We all know you’re the one that screams like a baby.”


	13. Chapter 13

FP doesn’t remember falling asleep during the movie, but he does remember what happened when he wakes up. 

He’s always been a light sleeper, so it’s no surprise that he’s awoken by the rustling of fabric. He looks to see Fred, still asleep rocking his head back and forth, a tense moan escaping his lips. 

“No,” Fred mumbles. “Stop, no.”

FP sits up, locking eyes with Mary, who’s settled in the armchair, sharing a worried glance. 

Fred grunts, his eyebrows furrowing in an unconscious, deep concern. It’s that sound that gets Archie and Jughead’s attention, who had both found their way to the floor, leaning their backs against the couch, a bowl of popcorn between them. 

“Dad?” Archie prods gently from his seat. 

Fred doesn’t wake up, but mumbles “stop” again. 

Archie leans over this time, placing a hand on the leg that Fred had propped up on the coffee table. “Dad,” he says again. 

“No, please,” Fred says. His grunts become louder every passing second. “Please. Help me. Help me!”

Fred bolts forward, finally awake, eyes wild and breathing heavy. It’s a second before the pain hits him, but it does, white hot and searing. He feels like he can’t breathe or talk, only managing to let out a few grunts. His face twists in pain as he shoves his fists into the couch to keep from yelling. For a second, he rests his forehead against FP’s shoulder. 

Archie and Jughead, who had jumped up as soon as Fred had awoken, looked both expectantly and worriedly at their respective uninjured parents. 

“Fred, honey,” Mary says, crouching down next to Fred, “it’s alright. You’re alright.”

“Just a dream, Freddy,” FP muses from his spot next to Fred, hand resting lightly on his back. “Just a dream.”

“I’m fine,” Fred chokes out. He looks up to meet Archie, who’s standing on the other side of the coffee table, nervously chewing his lip. “I’m fine.”

He’s suddenly very aware about all the eyes on him and can feel everything touching him. Mary’s hand on Fred’s knee, FP’s hand on his back, his robe, the couch fabric, every hair on his body…

He stands up quickly before he can stop himself, ignoring the pain coursing ripping through his body. 

“Fred!” Mary calls out. 

“Dad!”

“Freddy, where are you going?” 

He takes a step without his crutches, his knees buckling. Archie moves to support him, but Fred waves him off, swallowing the rising anger and irritation he suddenly feels at everyone and everything. “I just,” he pauses, forcing his voice to be gentle. “I just need a minute, okay?”

Archie and the others watch Fred limp heavily without the support of his crutches out onto the front porch, releasing a collective breath when Fred shuts the front door. 

“What-,” Archie starts, but he doesn’t know what he wants to ask. He’s pretty sure nobody’s got the answer anyway. 

Fred, for his part, is leaning against the railing of the porch, clutching it with white knuckles. He takes deep breaths in an attempt to slow his racing heart, but it doesn’t work. 

“Fred?” 

He looks up to see Alice clicking down the sidewalk in her kitten heels, carrying a casserole pan. She makes her way up the porch steps, setting the pan on the table next to the porch swing. 

Fred’s returned his focus to the cracks on the paint on the railing, still desperately trying to slow his body down. 

Alice doesn’t say anything, but directs Fred onto the porch swing, taking the seat next to him. 

“Breathe, Fred. Slow deep breaths,” Alice says before demonstrating the breaths, motioning for Fred to do them with her. 

She takes his hands in hers, rubbing her thumbs up and down the top of Fred’s hands. 

They continue like this for what feels like ages to Fred, but is only two minutes. Fred looks up at Alice, an exhausted smile on his face. 

“Feeling better?” Alice asks, eyebrow raised. 

“Yeah,” Fred breathes out. “Where did you learn that?”

“What, the breathing?” Alice cocks her head, a sly grin on her face. “Lamaze classes.”

Fred finds the energy to roll his eyes before letting out a breath and leaning back on the swing. 

Alice watches, still concerned. “I brought lasagna,” she says in attempt to lighten the mood. “No meat and easy on the cheese, so it’s not too heavy.” 

“I’m tired of eating light,” Fred says quietly, lifting his head to meet Alice’s eyes. 

Alice runs through a quick check of how to respond. ‘Fred’s tired of being coddled,’ she thinks, so she settles for the tough love approach. 

“Oh, hush. It’s literally, what, one more day, until you can start to eat regular food again? Don’t be a baby.”

Fred lets out a small laugh, wrapping his arm around his wound. “Yes, ma’am,” he quips back. 

“Good,” Alice says, standing up and extending her hand to help Fred up. “Where are your crutches?” she asks pointedly. 

“Inside,” Fred mumbles. 

Alice slaps him gently on the arm. “You idiot, you want to get better? You have to use your crutches.”

Fred nods, putting out a hand motioning her to stop. “Alice. I got it.”

Alice crosses her arms. “Well, you better. Because if you don’t, you’ll end up with a permanent limp and then how will you be able to run your company?”

Fred rolls his eyes again. “I said I got it, Alice.”

Alice sighs. “Fine,” she says. “Just making sure you don’t run yourself into the ground. You want to go inside? I’ve got to give Mary instructions for how to heat this,” she says, gesturing to the lasagna. 

Fred hesitates, turning to look at the street. “Not yet,” he says finally. “You can go on in, I’ll be there soon,” he says as he sits back down. 

Alice purses her lips. “Ah, they can wait,” she says, taking her seat next to Fred, rocking the swing gently as the two look out at the neighborhood they’d raised their kids on.


	14. Chapter 14

They end up staying outside longer than expected, only realizing it when they’re met with concerned faces of the people inside. 

“Are you alright?” Archie asks before Fred even had a chance to shut the door. 

Fred smiles and nods, extending his arm, silently asking Archie for help back to the couch. 

Archie wraps his arm around his father in support and leads him to the couch.

“I’m good, son. Don’t worry,” Fred says with a pat on his back and a smile. 

Alice has busied herself in the kitchen, directing Mary and FP on how to properly reheat the lasagna.

“Jesus, Allie, we’re not idiots,” FP interrupts her, rolling his eyes. 

Alice doesn’t look at him but mumbles, “Huh, that’s news to me,” which makes Mary laugh.

The lasagna reheats to Alice’s liking, and she serves them all as they gather around the living room before taking a piece herself. 

“Where’s the rest of your perfect Cooper clan, Allie?” FP asks, popping a piece into his mouth. 

Alice rolls her eyes again, ‘just like she does every time FP talks,’ Fred thinks. 

“If you must know, Forsynthe, Betty is working on a project with Veronica Lodge and Hal is working late at the paper.”

Fred and Mary share a look. They knew that FP and Alice could bicker all night long if given the chance, so Mary cuts in. “Thank you for bringing dinner, Alice. It’s delicious.”

Fred nods in agreement, setting his empty plate on the empty sofa cushion next to him. “Mary’s right. And thank you for all the help these last few weeks. I really appreciate it.”

Alice harrumphs. “Well, somebody’s got to take care of you.”

The men laugh while Mary rolls her eyes, and the room fills with conversation about Archie going back to school tomorrow and Jughead and Betty’s latest Blue and Gold conquest and Fred regails this moment where he feels completely safe. 

FP’s phone rings just as they’re finishing dinner and he looks at the caller ID and smiles. He hands it wordlessly to Fred, who has the same reaction when he sees who’s calling. 

Putting the phone to his ear, he says, “Well, if it isn’t Miss Jellybean Jones. How are you, sweetheart?”

“Uncle Fred!” the chipper voice yells back. “I was so worried. Mom said you were in an accident. Is everything alright? Was it, like, a car accident?”

“I’m fine, Jel. Just a few cuts and bruises.” Fred sees FP eying him as he lies. “It was a car accident, but it’s okay. Nobody else was hurt.”

Fred switches hands with the phone, nodding to Mary who silently asks if he’s finished with his plate and takes it from the table. 

Jellybean’s voice rings from the other end. “Oh, well that’s good. As long as you’ll be okay.”

“I will be.” 

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Good. Oh, hey, I almost forgot. Mom and I mailed you something a few days ago, so you should get it soon. You have to call us when you do!”

“Sure thing, kiddo. What is it?”

Jellybean laughs. “It’s a surprise, Uncle Fred, duh.”

Fred can visualize the eye roll he’s getting. “Of course. How could I forget?” 

“Mom wants to talk to you, okay Uncle Fred? Love you.”

“Love you too, Jel.”

Fred listens as the phone switches hands, and can hear Jellybean whisper to her mother, “He sounds okay!” It makes him smile. 

“Fred?”

“Hey, stranger. I should be mad at you,” Fred says, a smile on his lips, his voice playful.

“Why’s that, old man?”

Much like Jellybean, Gladys and Fred had a special relationship. Gladys, being two years younger, has been introduced to Fred’s friend group through FP. Fred had taken to her instantly, unlike Alice, who had spent the better part of the school year giving her the stink eye. 

Fred and Gladys adopted a playful, sibling like bond, finding comfort in their ability to mess around and push each other's buttons, and yet still trust each other blindly. 

After all, Gladys had left her children with Fred repeatedly when FP was at his worst. 

“Because,” Fred starts. “It takes getting shot for you to give me a call, huh?”

Gladys laughs, but there’s sadness and guilt in it. Fred thinks maybe he should lighten up on her. “What are ya gonna do? Raising a teenager is hard.”

“You’re telling me.” If Fred were a bitter man, he would’ve thrown in “raising two is harder,” but he’s not a bitter man.

Instead he laughs, and continues, “I’m just kidding. It’s good to hear from you. We miss you around here.”

“I miss you too,” Gladys sighs. “I just wanted hear from you that you’re alright. Are you?”

“I am… or, I will be. I’ll be fine.”

Gladys hesitated at the answer. “We were worried,” she starts, tears evident in her voice.

“Hey now,” Fred soothes. “I’m okay. I start physical therapy tomorrow and pretty soon I’ll be good as new.” 

Gladys sniffs. “I know you will be. Just take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too. And don’t be a stranger, alright? Give an old man a call every once in a while.”

“Well, we both know I’ll have to call you because I hear folks from your generation have a little trouble with phones.”

“From my…” Fred scoffs playfully. “I’ll let it slide as long as you do call from time to time.”

“I will. Love you, Freddy.”

“Love you too.”

The rest night passes smoothly, with Alice, FP, and Jughead leaving just before 9. Archie tackles the dishes while Mary gently shakes Fred, who had fallen asleep on the couch during the last half hour. 

“Hm?”

“Let’s get you upstairs, honey. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” 

Fred nods and takes the crutches Mary offers, and takes a few steps towards the kitchen to talk to Archie. 

“You ready to go back to school tomorrow, Arch?”

Archie turns to face his father, turning off the sink and drying his hands on his pants. “I think so. Betty got me all caught up. I can get off at lunch, if you want. Go to physical therapy with you.”

Fred smiles kindly but found himself hoping that this was just Archie’s way of getting out of school. Typical teenage stuff. “I appreciate that, son, but I’ll be alright. You’re mother will be there with me.”

Archie nods but purses his lips. “Alright, but I’ll call at lunch.” 

“Alright,” Mary cuts in. “Both of you need to get to bed.”

Mary supports Fred up the stairs while Archie spots them from behind. “‘Night, son,” Fred says, laying a hand on Archie’s shoulder when they make it up the stairs. “Love you.”

“Love you too, dad.”


	15. Chapter 15

Archie’s already at school by the time Fred wakes up the next morning. 

Mary brings him his breakfast and meds and Fred eats dutifully before insisting on a shower. 

“Maybe wait until after physical therapy? You’ll get a good workout in today.” 

“Yeah,” Fred says too sarcastically. “Walking in circles is a real ball buster.”

But Fred’s right, that’s exactly what they do. Dr. Masters is pleased with Fred’s progress, examining the wound that makes Fred nauseous even to think about. Out of the corner of his eye, he even sees Mary look away. 

He gets cleared to eat regular food, whatever he wants, but in moderation. He’s got to work on gaining back the weight he’s lost. 

Mary scoffs at that. When they met, she swore Fred’s waist was tinier than hers. 

Courtney takes them to the physical therapy wing of the hospital, where she and Fred walk lap after lap after Courtney tests Fred’s range of motion by moving his arm and leg back and forth, just like she did in the hospital. 

Fred’s gotten pretty good at walking on crutches, probably thanks to all the unadvised moving around he’s been doing, Courtney says. He can probably graduate to a cane by next week. 

By the end of the session, Fred’s tired and drained and doesn’t hear what Courtney is saying to him. He figures Mary will catch him up later. 

They arrived home to Sheriff Keller waiting in their driveway. He gets out of the car as they pull up, nodding to them. 

“Tom. To what do we owe this pleasure?” Fred says, not intentionally snarky, but to a stranger it might have sounded that way. 

Tom Keller’s no stranger, though. He knows Fred gets snarky and irritable when he’s waiting for something important. 

Like finding out who shot him.

“Well,” Sheriff Keller starts as the three of them make their way into the house, Keller sitting on the chair next to where Fred’s eased onto the couch. “Let me not beat around the bush. We still don’t know who shot you, Fred.”

“Well, what do you know?” Mary asks from her seat next to Fred, turning on her lawyer mode. 

Sheriff Keller sighs. “Not much, unfortunately. Look, you guys are my friends so let me be blunt. We’ve got nothing. No forensic evidence, no motive. Nothing.”

“So you came here to tell us that the police can’t do their job?” Mary spits out. Fred’s glad she’s doing the yelling so he doesn’t have to. Yelling still pulls on his stitches. 

And he likes Tom. He knows he’s trying.

“So what happens how?” Fred asks quickly, before Mary says anything else. 

“Well, that’s why I’m here. Fred, I know you said nobody threatened you, nobody had a grudge against you. I just need you to think. Are you sure that you can’t think of anyone that would do this to you? Maybe you got a threat that you didn’t know was a threat.”

Fred shakes his head adamantly. “I don’t. I honestly don’t think anyone I know could’ve done this. But you’re welcome to look at my emails and records at work, if you think that’ll help.”

Sheriff Keller nods. “That’d be great, Fred. We’ll let you know if we dig anything up. In the meantime,” he stands up and pays Fred’s knee, “You just keep focusing on getting better.”

They shake hands and Mary relieves her glare slightly to walk Sheriff Keller out. 

He feels his irritation rise after Sheriff Keller leaves. He’s felt increasingly irritated all day, what his mother used to call “waking up on the wrong side of the bed.” He thought that was something people grew out of, but maybe getting shot by a hooded man the police have no leads on and having everyone walk around him like he’s made of glass brings it back. 

Archie comes home and immediately presses to hear about Fred’s appointment. Fred’s relieves to see that Archie has some of his teenage spunk back in his step, thanks to school and football practice and friends. 

But he still can’t seem to get rid of the irritation in him. “They’re giving me a cane next week. So I can graduate from totally cripple to partially cripple.” 

“Fred!” Mary scolds as she sorts out the mail. 

Archie shares a look with Mary and moves closer to his father. “That’s good, though, right? That’s means you’re getting better.” 

Fred sighs and scrubs his hands down his face before nodding. “Yeah, it does. You’re right, son.”

“So why does it seem like you’re not happy about it?” 

Fred hesitates. “I am. I just, I don’t know. Just wish things could go back to normal.” 

Archie nods, because he knows the feeling. “They are going back to normal, Dad. It’ll just take some time.” 

Fred nods. “Right. You’re right, son. Hey, how was school?” 

The conversation shifts quickly, and Fred’s relieved. While he appreciates the thought, part of him just wants to sit in his room and wallow, just like he did in high school when he and Mary had had a fight. Someone would usually have to drag him out of it, usually Alice. 

But Alice isn’t here right now and he can’t just go and wallow when his son is here, so he just sits and simmers. 

He goes to sleep feeling bitter and irritable and maybe a little angry, so it’s no surprise he wakes up feeling the same. 

He makes it a point to get up before Archie this time, to make him breakfast, desperate to get make into his normal routine. 

The only problem is, the pan he needs is on the bottom shelf of the island, and he can’t bend down. 

He asks Mary, who’s already scolded him for getting up so early. “Fred, just sit down. I’ll make breakfast.”

“I’d like our son to eat something more than burnt toast,” he half-jokes, the other half irritation that he hopes isn’t visible.

“Fred, no. You’re in no state to be making breakfast, honey. Just take it easy.”

Fred rolls his eyes. “Doctor said I’m fine, Mare. Pan, please.”

Mary crosses her arms and squints like a child. “No, Fred.”

“Mar-“

“I said no, Fred.”

“Jesus Christ, Mary! Just give me the fucking pan!” 

Mary’s eyes widen at Fred’s tone and volume, because never once in their marriage, ever, had Fred raised his voice at her. 

She’s about to speak words she hasn’t prepared when she’s interrupted. “I’m sorry,” Fred sputters. “I didn’t mean to…”

Mary stops him. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to push,” she says gently. 

“No, I shouldn’t have yelled,” Fred says meekly, avoiding her eyes but taking the pan that she hands him. 

Archie comes downstairs, clearly having heard the outburst. “Is everything okay?” He asks, concern evident in his voice. 

“Fine,” Fred says before taking a deep breath. “I was just going to make eggs. You want eggs?”

Archie tries not to look surprised. “Uh, yeah. Sure, Dad. Eggs would be great.”

“Great,” Fred says, cracking eggs into the pan. “Sit down, both of you. We’ve got time for a real breakfast.”


	16. Chapter 16

Archie leaves for school hesitantly, unsure if he would return to his parents arguing or if his dad just needed some time alone. 

Mary had decided the latter. Shortly after Archie left, Mary poked her head into the living room, taking a break from the laundry she’s been doing. 

“I’ve gotta make a quick run to the store if you’ll be alright.” 

Fred looks up from the book he’s been thumbing through on the couch. “That’s fine,” he says, looking over his glasses. “You know, I think it’s time we start talking about you getting back to your real life,” he says, closing the book and setting his glasses on top of it. 

“What do you mean?” She knows what he means. She just isn’t ready to hear it. 

“Mare, you’ve been here for nearly a month. How much longer can you stay away from your work in Chicago?”

“You want me to go?” She asks, fully appearing in the entryway, eyes sad and subtly pleading. 

Fred laughs. It’s the kind of laugh he does when nothing’s actually funny. “Of course I don’t. But I’ll be able to move around easier soon. I’m just saying we’ve kept you long enough.” 

“Well then,” Mary pauses, choosing her words carefully, her face unreadable, “we can talk about it when you can move around easier.” 

She moves back into the kitchen, effectively ending the conversation. Fred finds it himself to laugh and roll his eyes, thinking that Mary hasn’t really changed since high school. 

She leaves soon after, but not before dropped two cardboard boxes full unmarked VHS tapes on the couch next to him. 

“What’s this?” Fred asks, eyebrows raised. 

Mary sighs. “This is just the start. I found them in the basement, there’s about five mor boxes. Your job is to figure out which, if any, are important and worth keeping, and what we can throw away.”

“You mean donate,” Fred corrects, already shuffling through the first box. 

Mary laughs and shakes her head. “Honey, nobody has a VHS player anymore. Just because you insist on keeping a television from last century doesn’t mean everybody else has.”

She meets his eyes and they share a smile, the kind that reminds Fred of when they first met. His mood improves ever so slightly, but then the moment passes.

Mary leaves Fred to it, but he takes one look at the boxes next to him and decides something else is more important. 

Steadying himself on his crutches, Fred hobbles into the kitchen, looking for the information packet the hospital gave him when he left. 

He finds it on the counter next to his pills, and he briefly remembers Mary’s reminder as she left to take his meds at 3.

A quick look at the clock on the stove tells him he’s got an hour and a half. 

He shuffles through the packet before finding and pulling out the card he’d been looking for. 

He hobbles back to the couch, carefully lowering himself down, wincing slightly, reaching for his cell phone that sits on the coffee table. 

He dials the number on the card and waits as it rings and eventually reaches voicemail. 

“Hi, you’ve reached Melody Sanders at Riverdale General Hospital, Social Work Department. Please leave a message with your name and number and I’ll get back to you within 24 hours. If this is an emergency, please dial 911 or visit our Emergency Department. Thanks, and have a good day.”

Fred hesitates. He’d practiced what to say when Melody picked up, but he hadn’t rehearsed what he was going to do if he had to leave a voicemail. 

“Hi Melody,” he starts weakly. “This is Fred Andrews. You, uh, you came to see me about a week ago when I was admitted,” he pauses, swallowing thickly before taking a deep breath and continuing. “You gave me your card and said to give you a call when I needed to talk… and I, um, I think I need to talk. But I understand if you’re busy or… something.” 

God, he feels like he’s in high school leaving a message for a date. 

“Anyway, give me a call back whenever you can. I’m pretty free these days,” he adds with a nervous laugh. “Uh, thanks.” 

He leaves his number and hangs up quickly, willing his mind to pretend like he didn’t just leave a horribly awkward voicemail. 

He turns his attention to the VHS tapes next to him and wills himself to gather the energy to get up and put one in the player when his phone rings. 

Fred feels his heart drop as he recognizes the number as the one he just called. He wasn’t prepared for this. 

“Hello?”

“Fred? Hi, this is Melody. I’m so sorry, I walked into my office right as you were leaving the voicemail.”

“Oh, no problem.” Fred feels his voice shaking. “Thanks for calling me back. I wasn’t sure if…” he trails off, and is grateful when Melody cuts in. 

“My offer stands for as long as you need it to, Fred.”

Fred hesitates. “Thanks.”

“So, how are you feeling? How’s recovery going?”

He takes a deep breath and a quick stock of how his body’s feeling today. “It’s… going,” he finally says after searching for the right word. 

“Yeah?” Melody’s voice crackles through the phone. “How’s the pain?”

Fred laughs. Some would call it bitter. “Sometimes it just feels like I took one too many baseball hits to the stomach, other times it feels like someone’s trying to scoop my guts out with a dull spoon.”

Melody laughs pleasantly. “Sounds pleasant.” She pauses, waiting to see if Fred offers anything else. He doesn’t. “How’s it feel today?”

“Somewhere in the middle,” he says after another pause.

Melody hums. “That’s better than having your guts spooned out, I suppose. How’s Archie doing?” 

“He’s alright. Actually, that reminds me. There’s something I could use your help with.” Melody hears a sudden burst of energy in his voice. “I was hoping you could recommend a therapist for him.” 

“For Archie?” 

“Yeah. Just someone he could talk to about all this. We talked to him, he says he’s willing.” 

Melody smiles into the phone. “Sure thing. I’ll have some names ready for you when you come in for physical therapy tomorrow, is that okay?”

“That’d be great, thank you so much.” Fred feels a sudden wave of relief wash over him. 

“Now, let’s talk about you.” 

Relief gone. 

“Right…. I guess that’s why I called in the first place.” 

“It is,” Melody says simply. 

“Right,” he repeats uselessly. 

Melody senses his discomfort, so she offers, “How are the nightmares, Fred?” 

Fred clears his throat. “They’re, uh… they still happen.”

“How often?” 

“Every night,” Fred says quietly. 

“Do you want to tell me what happens?” 

Fred sighs. He hasn’t discussed the emotional trauma that goes along with getting shot with anyone, save for the brief conversation with Melody in the hospital. “It’s usually the same as before. The Black Hood shoots Archie, then I wake up.” 

“So I take it you’re not sleeping well?”

Fred laughs, this him Melody can clearly hear the bitterness dripping from voice. “You take it right.” He pauses, hesitating again. It’s really starting to feel like an awkward high school first date now. “I mean, the pain meds knock me out cold when I take them which is nice, but I don’t like the way they make me feel after.”

“Have you told anyone about the nightmares? Your family? Archie?”

“Archie?” Fred asks, almost shocked that Melody would suggest such a thing. “I couldn’t tell Archie. He already feels guilty enough.” 

“So who do you talk to? About the emotional stuff, I mean.” 

Fred suddenly feels defeated. “I guess… it used to by my ex-wife, but now… I guess, nobody. You.”

“I’m happy to hear that you feel like you can talk to me, Fred. Which is why I want to make a suggestion, if you’re open to it.” 

“Okay.” 

“I wonder if you’d be willing to come see me in person to talk. We could do it on the same days as your physical therapy, so it’s not too much trouble, or on different days if it gets to be too much.” 

Melody hears Fred take a deep breath. “You mean like therapy?” 

It’s Melody’s turn to hesitate. “Yeah,” she finally settles. “Therapy. If you feel comfortable.” 

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Great.” Fred listens as Melody begins to type on her computer. “I’m off tomorrow, but how about Friday? Before physical therapy?” 

“I, uh… yeah. That sounds okay.” 

“Great! I’ll see you then, Fred. Take care you yourself, alright?”

It’s only after Fred hangs up that he realizes his hands are shaking. He clenches and unclenches them into fists in a feeble attempt to make it stop. 

Part of him is anxious, but another part feels an enormous sense of relief at the thought of sharing his feelings with a professional that can help him. 

Fred’s never don’t therapy before, but getting shot, he thinks, seems like as good a time as any. 

In an attempt to quell the part of him that’s anxious, he turns his attention to the tapes Mary left for him to sort. 

A few of them are labeled, old Christmas specials and tv-aired concerts, so he can sort through them without having to macgyver a way to bend down and play the VHS. He sorts through those first, slowing down when he sees only the unmarked ones remain.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the doorbell rings. 

“Veronica?” He’s surprised, because chool’s not even out yet and there’s no reason Veronica would be here without Archie unless something was wrong. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I have free last period, so I thought I’d stop by and say hello.” Veronica’s never been one to feel like she has so explain herself to others, even adults, but she sees the panic in Fred’s eyes. 

She recognizes it because she sees it in Archie’s eyes every day. 

“Oh, well, hello,” Fred says, face breaking into a grin that almost makes it look like he didn’t just lose a quarter of his blood volume. “Come in.” 

He steps aside, leaning heavily on the crutches they expect him to be off of by next week. He’s halfway to the couch when he realizes he’s forgotten something. “Do you want anything to eat, drink? There’s tons of food in the freezer from the Cooper’s.” 

Veronica smiles and sits across from Fred on the Lay-Z-Boy. “No, thank you,” she says, setting her purse down. “If I need something, I’ll get it.” She takes a quick look at Fred, trying to take stock of how Fred’s doing before she asks. She wonders how often he gets asked that these days. 

She asks anyways, because as expressive and loving as she knows Fred Andrews to be, she also knows that he’d be damned before he let anyone know he was suffering. 

“How are you?” she asks brightly in an attempt to keep things light. 

“Getting better,” Fred says, nodding. He wonders briefly if Archie’s sent Veronica, or if she’s come on her own accord. Either way, he feels a black hole of guilt settle into his stomach. These children shouldn’t have to check up on him like this. But he can’t say that, so he plasters a smile and asks, “And you? How’s school?” 

Veronica shrugs. “Nothing special, Cheryl’s running the Vixens like an Army boot camp.” 

That makes Fred laugh. “That’s the Cheryl I know.” 

Veronica finds herself wondering if Fred knows Cheryl well, if he’s played as big of a part in raising her as he has the rest of the children of Riverdale. 

But Fred suddenly looks tired to her, cheeks sunken and eyes that have seen too much. 

So instead, she turns her attention to the VHS tapes on the couch. “What are these?” 

“These,” Fred says, a smile that doesn’t quite teach his eyes on his face, “must look like ancient artifacts to you,” he jokes. “They’re VHS tapes. Mary wants me to sort through them to see what we can throw away. I think she’s just trying to make me feel useful, like less of a couch potato.” 

Veronica laughs. “Mr. A., you’re the least ‘couch potato’ person I know.” She waits until she sees him smile before continuing.” “So, are these, like, home movies?” She asks, leaning over and thumbing through the box, picking up one tape to examine it. 

“Actually, why don’t you put that one in and we can find out? You know how to work it?” He asks, a playful smile on his face. 

Veronica rolls her eyes in typical teenage fashion. “Of course, I do… maybe,” she says, eyeing to old television. 

She gets the tape into the player, handing the remote to Fred. 

The screen is black for few seconds before Mary’s familiar voice comes through the speaker, as Fred realizes this is, in fact, a home video. 

Veronica watches the screen light up to show the Andrews’ upstairs bathroom. It looks different, before they remodeled. Mary’s crouched down next to the tub, holding what’s obviously a baby Archie in the water. He’s crying, screaming bloody murder. Veronica wonders how Mary’s eardrums didn’t break. 

The timestamp in the corner tells Veronica that Archie’s just under two in this video. 

‘Archie, honey, please. We’re almost done, I promise. Then how about some French fries, huh? Just five more minutes then fries,” Mary coos on screen. 

She’s desperately trying to rub body wash on Archie, but he’s splashing and kicking and doing just about anything to get away. 

Veronica turns to look at Fred, who got the most genuine smile she’s seen on him in a while. “He wasn’t a fan of baths, huh?”

Fred laughs wholeheartedly. “Just wait,” he says, turning to look at her, “it’s gets better.” 

She turns her attention back to the screen just in time to see a younger Mary turn to the camera and silently plead for help. 

The camera shifts and is set down on a counter as A nearly 15 year younger Fred emerges on screen. 

His wardrobe is no surprise, the same jeans and flannel as always. Even his wardrobe is dependable, Veronica thinks. 

It’s the rest of him that shocks her. She’s heard Cheryl call Fred a DILF before, and while she wouldn’t disagree, the Fred she sees on screen is… hot. 

She’s no stranger to the stories of the young heartbreaker Fred used to be, but until now, she’s never seen what he looked like. 

This Fred doesn’t have the weight of the world on his shoulders. He’s happy, his only concern his wife and young son. Fathers haven’t killed sons yet, nobody’s gotten shot at Pop’s. 

He’s winning the James Dean lookalike contest, that’s for sure. She sees Archie in him. In his deep eyes and the way he cocks half a smile at Mary in a flirtatious attempt to calm her down. 

‘Archie,’ he hears young Fred sooth. ‘You gotta be brave for me, okay?’ 

His voice is so calm, so kind, not unlike now, but it’s no wonder women were fawning over him, Veronica thinks. Who wouldn’t want this man to be the father of their children? 

She watches as a soaking wet Archie sobs so much she swears he’s not breathing and reach desperately for his father. 

He and Mary share a look. Fred doesn’t pick his son up, but instead begins taking off his socks. 

Veronica finds her eyes glued to the screen as baby Archie continues to scream and reach for his father. She furrows her brows in confusion, wondering what on-screen Fred was doing. 

Her questions are answered immediately as a now barefoot, but still fully clothed Fred climbs into the tub, gathering Archie in his arms and kneeling down, so his jeans are completely soaked. 

Veronica can’t see Mary’s face, but she starts to rub soap on Archie as he clings to his father for dear life. 

‘That’s it, that’s my boy,’ Fred says gently as he turns Archie so Mary can get his front. ‘Almost done, bud.’ 

The video cuts out shortly after, the camera having run out of battery. 

“Well, I guess we should keep that one.” 

Veronica turns to face Fred, only to find that he looks even more tired, even more sad to her after seeing what he was like when he was a young father. 

She tries to distract herself. “Did he always cry like that when you gave him a bath?” 

Fred laughs softly, still stuck in the past. “Every time. He screamed so loud we were afraid someone would call the cops. From eight months on, he acted like taking a bath was a form of medieval torture.” 

Veronica laughs internally at the sight. “What about before then?” 

“Well, when babies are really little, you just bathe ‘em in the sink, you know?” 

She doesn’t. She doesn’t know anything about babies. “You do?” she asks, trying to picture a young Fred and Mary bathing Archie in the kitchen sink she’s seen Fred wash dishes in so many times. 

Fred looks at her confused face and laugh. “Yeah, it’s just less work. Archie was small enough that we could do it for a while. Newborns don’t really do anything, so it’s not so much giving them a bath as it is pouring water over them with your hand.” 

The look Veronica sees on Fred’s face makes her hope with everything in her that he’ll get to be the grandfather to her children one day. She smiles at the thought, before asking, “So when did he stop hating baths?” 

Fred thinks a minute then cocks his head with a smile. “Probably around two and a half. That’s when he started understanding the bribes we offered him.” 

“French fries?” 

Fred’s thin smile breaks out into a tooth-showing grin that makes Veronica’s heart swell. “He wouldn’t at anything for the longest time. We tried everything, baby food, real food, nothing. We were so worried that he want gaining weight…” he trails off, laughing to himself. “But one day Mary brought home Pop’s for dinner and she had it sitting on the chair,” he says, gesturing to the kitchen island. “I turned my head for a second and Archie had managed to climb up and knock the bag out. I found him sitting on the floor stuffing fries into his mouth like he’d never seen food before.” 

She smiles, but watches him intensely. The way he tries to shift in his seat without letting her know how bad it hurts, the way his arm settled across his stomach to protectively cover his wound when he first sat down and hasn’t moved since. 

He’s afraid, she can tell, even through his paternal eyes. He’s watching the door, watching her, body tense even when he’s sitting here with her. 

“Are you alright?” she hears him ask. 

She thinks that that’s her line, that she’s the one that’s supposed to be asking him that, that he was practically the town saint even before he got shot, so what does that make him now? 

She suddenly feels a deep desire to know everything about Fred, about his childhood, his parents, the things he never tells anyone. ‘What does it feel like to get shot?’ she wants to ask. To lose a parent? To lose a sibling? To have a child that you love so much you’d die for them? 

But she can’t ask that. Because Fred’s vulnerable enough as it is. And while she’s been know to kick a few when they’re down, she could never do that to Fred Andrews. Mostly because Fred Andrews has never done that to anyone as long as he’s lived. 

“Yeah,” she says. She stops there, because there’s so much she wants to know and doesn’t know how to ask. 

Fred raises his eyebrows, seeing right through her, the way a true father would. She wonders if her own father would be able to pick on her feelings like this. 

He keeps his eyes on her, so she finally comes up with a way to learn more about the great Fred Andrews. “Did you always want kids?” 

Fred drops his eyebrows, looking blankly at nothing for a split second before turning his whole body to face Veronica with the kindest face she’s ever seen on anyone. “Yeah,” he says gently. “I always did.” 

His voice is soft, reminiscent. “Why do you ask?” 

Veronica shrugs, because she really doesn’t know why she’s asking. “Just curious, I guess. I’ve been thinking a lot about if my parents wanted to be parents. I guess it’s just on my mind.” 

She’s not lying. Shes been thinking about her parents, if it was really right for a mobster to have a child, about whether she wants children too. 

“Your mother wanted kids. We talked about it back when…” he trails off, leaving the rest better off unsaid. “She wanted you.” 

Veronica nods, suddenly relieved. She wasn’t looking for confirmation, but now that she has it, it feel nice. 

Fred continues, voice still soft and raspy, a mixture of sleepy and gentle. “Mary took some convincing. She was all about her job, which she had every right to be,” he adds, directing his eyes to Veronica. “I used to think she was doing it just for me, that she didn’t really want a child.” 

“What changed?” 

“Archie was born. She loved him plain as day. Always will.” 

“It’s that simple?”

“Well, no. Not for everyone. Some people don’t want children, and nothing can change their minds. That’s okay too. I don’t know if Mary agreed to have a baby because she saw how much I wanted one, or if she did it because she wanted it. But if worked out for us. It doesn’t for everyone.” 

He’d seen the result of a resentful parent, of someone who blamed their child for ruining their life. He’d gone to school with some of those children, saw what it did to them. Swore to never let that be his kid. 

There was some contention between him and Mary, especially when Archie was little. Mary always thought that Archie liked Fred better. 

‘Of course he does,’ he’d joke back. ‘I’m the good cop.’ 

After the respective maternity and paternity leaves were over, they had decided that Mary would return to work at the law firm and Fred would stay home until Archie was old enough to start school. 

He didn’t mind. He took a backseat role in the construction company and enjoyed every second of his time with his son. 

But he couldn’t fault Mary for being hurt at hearing Archie scream and reach for Fred when he would go out for an afternoon, leaving Mary alone with Archie. 

He couldn’t fault her for being sad at how happy Archie got when Fred came back home. 

They’d discussed it when Archie got older, after they’d split up. Archie just was Fred’s boy, it was that simple. 

He’s brought out of his thoughts when he sees Veronica staring at him. “Have you been thinking about it? Whether you want kids?” He asks, careful not to push. 

Veronica shrugs. “I just don’t want to raise my kids in the environment Dad raised me in. Mom tried to make a difference when Dad went to prison, but I just… I don’t know. I want my kids to be happy. To not have to worry about dead bodies and illegal dealings and all that.” 

Fred laughs and pats Veronica’s knee. “For what it’s worth, that the intention everyone has when they have kids. Everybody wants to create the perfect environment to raise kids in. But that’s just not possible. Things happen, Veronica. Things that are out of our control. We just have to learn to roll with and and teach our kids to do that same.” He pauses, leaving closer. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a great mother.” 

“Thanks, Mr. A.” She didn’t expect to be so touched by this conversation, to learn more about herself than about Fred. Maybe it was a Dad thing, the inability to leave a conversation without imparting some great wisdom. 

She turns her attention back to the VHS tapes in the box. “We better get to work before Mrs. A comes home.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler but fluffy.

They make it through all the tapes, some useless recorded infomercials, others cartoons Archie would refuse to eat without.

They’re down to the last few when Veronica’s stomach growls.

Veronica stops in her tracks, hoping Fred didn’t hear.

He did, of course, because he’s Fred Andrews. “Veronica, you should’ve told me you were hungry. There’s plenty of food in the fridge. You like lasagna?” he says as he reaches for his crutches and starts to stand. “Alice made some. It’s supposed to healthy or something.”

Veronica puts a hand out to stop him. “You sit, I’ll get it.”

Fred nods and drops back into the sofa, grateful. He hadn’t realized how bad the pain was now until he tried to move.

A quick glance at his watch tells him why. 3:30, about half an hour late on his meds. Mary’s going to kill him.

As if on cue, Veronica calls, “Do you need anything?” from the kitchen.

“Actually, do you mind bringing me those pill bottles? They’re on the counter next to the microwave.”

Veronica spins quickly, scanning for the pills. She finds five bottles, each with a different name and instructions. “Sure. All of them?”

Fred laughs. It’s bitter again. “Unfortunately, yeah.”

She brings them in, then returns a second later with a glass of water. Fred’s already emptied the right amount of pills into his palm and swallows them in one go.

“What are all those?” Veronica asks, curiosity getting the best of her. She realizes she may have asked too personal a question and throws her hand over her mouth. That is,” she adds quickly, “if you don’t mind me asking.”

Fred laughs softly. “I don’t mind at all. Truth is, I’m not even entirely sure what they all do. I sort of stopped listening when the nurse was explaining them. I know those two are antibiotics,” he says, gesturing to two of the bottles, “and those two are anti-inflammatories, and this one,” he says, picking up the last bottle, “is a painkiller. If you want a more detailed explanation,” he says, a laugh on his lips, “ask Mary. I’m pretty sure she’s got the ingredients memorized.”

Veronica shakes her head with a smile. “I think I’ll pass.”

She opens her mouth to speak again when she hears the front door open. Archie races in from up the porch steps, Mary following shortly behind.

“Ronnie,” he says, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

She smiles and rubs his shoulder. “I just thought I’d stop by and say hello to your dad. I hope that’s okay,” she adds after a beat.

Fred watches Archie smile. “Of course, it’s okay, Ronnie. I was looking for you after school. Mom came to pick me up, I thought you’d might want a ride.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Archikins. But I appreciate you thinking of me.” She looks around the room, seeing Mary busy herself putting away the groceries, Fred, having silently risen from the couch, clutching his way over to her.

Suddenly, she feels like an intruder. Without words, the Andrews family had managed to create an intimate space that feels too foreign to her.

It makes her want to cry.

“I should go,” she says to Archie.

“Oh, no, Veronica. Stay for dinner. It’s the least I can do for all your trouble today.”

“No trouble at all, Mr. A. But I really should go. I don’t want to intrude.”

Mary chimes in from her spot in front of the fridge, putting apples into the drawer. “You’re not intruding at all, Veronica,” she says. “We’ve got enough food to feed an army.”

Archie looks at her. She sees Fred in him. Or him in Fred, she’s not sure. “Stay, Ronnie. Please.”

She puts her purse back down and smiles. “Well,” she says with a laugh, “if you insist.”

In the end, she’s glad she stayed. She suddenly feels included in the family,

She helps Archie with the dishes, despite his protests. She watches as the family, even after desperation, can divide kitchen chores without having to say a word.

She leaves shortly after, opting to calls Smithers instead of taking up Mary’s offer to drive her home. She’d spent a limited amount of time with Archie’s mother, and as much as she hated to admit it, she was greatly intimidated by her. As much as she leaned into Fred, embraced his wisdom and support, Mary and Veronica were still new to each other. There was still a lot to learn.

Archie watches from the door as Smithers and Veronica drive away. Fred, who’s been watching as Mary tidies up the kitchen, takes the towel hanging off the stove in an attempt to help her.

Mary swats at his hand and the towel, motioning with her head for Fred to go upstairs.

Wordlessly, Fred cocks a half smile that makes his eyes sparkle unintentionally, and for a moment, Mary’s heart speeds up.

They’re not in love anymore, not like that, at least, she doesn’t think they are, but Fred still manages to make her heart skip a beat.

They’re not in love, but she still loves him. She always will.

Archie smiles at the exchange and wraps his arm around his father’s waist, holding the crutches as he helps Fred up the stairs.

She finds him in bed a few minutes later. He’s propped up with pillows, one arm at his side, the other across his abdomen. The flannel he’s taken to wearing to bed since he can’t put on a t-shirt yet hangs loose over his torso. He looks almost casual, Mary thinks. Almost as if Fred didn’t carefully position every part of his body to ensure the least amount of pain possible.

She joins him, moments later, unconsciously pressing one hand into Fred’s shoulder, massaging a knot.

His breath deepens as he leans into her touch. He pauses a minute, before laughing softly. “You know, I got shot in the stomach, so what I can’t figure out is why my back hurts so bad.”

Mary hums, re-adjusting herself so she’s behind Fred, helping him sit up slightly. She presses her palms into his upper back. “Your body’s not used to sitting still like this. And you’ve been sleeping on your back.” She pushes deeper, releasing a knot. Fred sucks in a breath.

“Too much?” Mary asks, concern evident in her voice.

Fred shakes his head. He can’t find it in to use his voice. He hadn’t realized how sore his body actually was, especially since he’d spent the last few weeks avoiding taking full stock on the effect one small bullet truly had.  
He’s not sure at what point during the massage he falls asleep. The last thing he remembers is Mary telling him he carries his stress in his shoulders.

After that, he’s back in the diner. Archie comes in, goes to the bathroom, the bell rings, the Black Hood comes in. Same as always.

The Black Hood holds the gun up to Archie and Fred runs, adrenaline pumping, to block the shot.

He doesn’t.

The next thing he remembers is Mary, staring down at him. Her hand is on his shoulder, but it’s not massaging it this time, instead, she holds it there as an anchor. An attempt to show him what’s real.

She moves her other hand to his chest. “Breathe, Fred. Deep breaths.”

It’s only then he realizes he’s panting, sweating like he’s just run a marathon. He does as instructed, only to realize that deep breathing isn’t the most productive when you’ve got a bullet hole in your chest.

He groans before he can stop himself. Mary’s rubbing circles on his shoulder, whispering at him. “It’s okay. Archie’s okay. He’s in his room.”

She’s about to offer to go get him, to let Fred see for himself that he saved his son, but she doesn’t. She knows Fred wouldn’t want that.

Towards the end of his life, Artie Andrews had moments of delirium, moments when he thought Fred was dead, or hurt, or worse of all, someone else.

Fred would watch, listen to his father call him by a different name. Hold back tears as he calmed Artie and promised him that he was right there, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Mary knew, because Fred would come to her house, stoic, unreadable, until she’d leave to get him a glass of water and come back to find him in tears on bed.

She knew what it did to Fred, the way it ate him up inside. She knew he would never want Archie to feel that way.

So she doesn’t offer. She just sits up, holds him, and rubs his back until he can breath again.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, before drifting back to sleep.


	18. Chapter 18

He sleeps through the rest of the night and well into the morning. 

He misses Archie leaving for school again, which is enough to put him in a bad mood. But when Mary appears in the bedroom with gauze and bandages, he can’t help himself but to audibly groan. 

“I know,” Mary says with a sympathetic smile. “But we have to keep the wound clean.” 

Fred stiffens as Mary moves towards him, gesturing for him to take off his shirt. “I want to do it,” he says firmly, looking her in the eye. 

Mary hesitates. Truth be told, she doesn’t even want to do this, to look at the stitches and bruising that signify her husband being ripped apart and sewn back together. But better her than him. 

“It’s okay, honey. It’s kind of at an awkward angle and-,” she starts, but Fred cuts her off. 

“I’ll have to do it when you leave, Mary. I may as well try and do it while you’re here to help me.” 

Mary eyes him for a second, then sighs. “Alright, but tell me if you need to switch.” 

She helps Fred to the bathroom, leaning his crutches against the doorway and sitting on the covered toilet seat. 

She watches as Fred unbuttons his shirt, tugs at the bandage, clenching his jaw as he pulls the tape off, pulling skin with it. 

He peels the gauze off, trying to steady his breath as he sees deep red and purple appear from underneath. 

He’s so focused on not throwing up that he doesn’t see Mary turn her head discretely away from him. She’s not going to look if she doesn’t have to. 

Finally, completely uncovered, Fred looks at himself in the mirror. The 9 millimeter hole made by a small piece of metal created a smattering of the darkest bruises he’s ever seen. 

The stitches are slowly dissolving, leaning behind raised skin in an jagged line. No time for beauty when you’ve got blood pouring out of you. 

He cuts off a fresh piece of gauze, eyes still partially glued to the reflection of his torso in the mirror. He reaches for the rubbing alcohol, only to find that it’s fallen on the floor. 

“Can you get me that?” He asks Mary, gesturing to the bottle. 

She doesn’t respond. She’s too busy trying to be anywhere but here. 

“Mary.” 

She blinks .”Hm?”

“The bottle. Could you get it for me?” 

“Oh,” she breathes, putting the bottle back on the counter. “Sorry.”

Fred dabs an alcohol soaked cotton ball across his wound, glancing intermittently in Mary’s direction. She’s gone back to looking away. “You don’t have to sit here,” he says gently, like he talks to Archie. 

Mary suddenly straightens up. “No, no. You’ll need help taping it back on.” 

Fred nods, but doesn’t say anything else. There’s nothing he can say to make Mary feel better. 

He squeezes the hand she’s got resting on the counter and turns away just enough so Mary can’t see the angry scars anymore. 

They finish quickly, Fred securing the gauze before Mary tapes the bandage on top. 

“What do want to wear to physical therapy today?” Mary says as she hands Fred his crutches and leads him out of the bathroom. 

Fred laughs. “I don’t think it matters, Mare. I’m not going entering a fashion contest.” 

But Mary’s already bent over, rummaging through the dresser. She turns, holding up a pair of yellow pajama pants with Bob the Builder on them. 

“Like Daddy!” A five year old Archie had said when he insisted on buying the for Fred’s birthday that year. 

Fred smiles genuinely. “I kept those for the sentiment, not the style.” 

Mary throws her head back with laughter. “So you’ll wear them?” 

“Not a chance,” he says with a wink. 

He does change his clothes, though, because Mary read somewhere that what you wear affects how you feel, so if Fred wants to feel better, he’s got to look the part. 

He rolls his eyes but goes with it, because Mary’s done enough for him so he’ll give her this. 

She helps him into grey sweatpants and a red and black flannel, and orders him to comb his hair before they leave. 

The meet Courtney in the physical therapy room at Riverdale General, but not before being stopped by the check in nurse. “Mr. Andrews,” she says as she hands him a piece of paper. “Melody from Social Work left this for you.” 

He looks at it briefly before handing it to Mary. “Thank you,” he says, then turns to Mary. “A list of therapists for Archie,” he says quietly. 

Mary nods, folding the paper into her purse. The look on Fred’s face tells her they can talk about it layer. 

Physical therapy crushes him, he thinks. All he wants to do is go home and go to sleep.

Courtney starts with stretches, moving his legs and arms, getting the muscles moving. She then directs him to a walker, walking behind him as he does lap after lap around the room until the new flannel Mary told him to wear is completely drenched. 

He tries not to think about how, just a month ago, he could break concrete all day and still manage to come home and make dinner, and now he can’t even go for a walk. 

Mary watches from a bench as he walks, joining him when Courtney silently nods, letting her know Fred might need so cheering on. 

She puts a two pound weight in each of Fred’s hands, asking them to lift as high as he can while still standing. He’s never felt more pathetic. 

After ten minutes, he’s so tired he can’t even tell Courtney he has to stop. He just shakes his head. 

Courtney smiles. “That’s okay, Fred. You’re well beyond the average recovery time.” 

He thinks she’s lying. He can barely muster a smile, but Mary does it for him. “Thanks, Courtney,” she says brightly. “See you on Monday.” 

He falls asleep on the way home, and when Mary rouses him to get him up the porch steps, he gestures weakly to the couch. He can’t handle more stairs right now. 

He wakes up to Archie’s laugh radiating from upstairs and instantly feels better. 

Archie had invited his friends over for dinner but Veronica had already agreed to a trip to New York with her mother. Archie thinks it’s at least in part because she gets to miss school. 

Jughead and Betty come, though, and devour Alice’s three cheese pasta that Mary serves them in spades. 

“Mr. Andrews,” Betty says after dinner, “Veronica told me she got to see some home videos yesterday.”

“Yeah, Mr. A, got any more?” Jughead chimes in, taking his usual spot on the floor of the living room, back against the coffee table. 

“As a matter of fact,” Mary says as she appears from the kitchen, “I just pulled another box of tapes from the basement. Why do you see what’s on them?” 

Archie stops in his tracks. “Wait l, like, baby videos? Of me?” He looks horrified. 

Fred laughs. “One and only, bud. I’ve been saving them to show at your wedding, but I guess we can take a look now,” he jokes. 

Jughead takes a VHS from the top of the box, popping it into the player. 

There's static on the screen before the camera pans to young Fred, who’s laying flat on his back on the floor of the master bedroom, arms crossed over his face so they’re covering his eyes. 

He remembers that day, remembers falling off the ladder in an attempt to clean the gutters during Archie’s nap. 

He remembers awkwardly laying an ice pack on his back until Archie woke up, then abandoning any attempt to rest and letting the ice pack melt. 

“Is it helping?” Mary says from behind the camera, referring to his position on the floor. 

“Jury’s still out,” Fred mumbles from behind his arms.

Then Archie starts crying from another room and Fred starts to get off the floor. 

“You stay. Keep stretching,” Mary says, “I’ll get him.” The the camera cuts out. 

The next clip is from the same day, but later. Fred’s laying on the bed now, on top of the covers. He’s shirtless, chest smooth, pajamas clinging tightly to his hips. 

“Cover your eyes, Arch,” Fred says now as he slaps Archie’s knee. Archie rolls his eyes. 

Fred runs his eyes up and down his younger self on the screen obsessively. He analyzes every part of his old body, from his face down to his waist. 

Fred’s never felt particularly self conscious about his body, but he feels his eyes stuck to examining torso. 

No scars, no bruising. Internal organs not ripped to shreds. Young Fred had no idea what he was in for. 

What would become of his town, his marriage, his son...

He stops himself. He can’t go there. Not there, not now. He tries to shift his focus to his baby boy on screen instead. 

Baby Archie’s bouncing around next to him. He tries to stand, but wobbles and falls down, landing in his father’s arms. 

“Careful, bud,” Fred coos, moving Archie’s vibrant hair out of his face. 

“Archie,” Mary’s gentle voice comes from behind the camera. “What did daddy hurt?” 

“Back!” Archie shrieks.

“What?” Fred says, holding in a laugh. 

“Back!” Archie yells again joyfully, throwing his arms up and falling back into his father. 

They laugh, then Mary hands the camera over to Fred, who captures Mary scooping Archie into her arms. “It’s time for bed, sweetie,” she says. “Say goodnight, daddy!” 

“Nigh’, daddy!” Archie attempts. 

Fred captures Archie waving to him as Mary carries him out before the camera going dark again. 

When it comes back, the screen is black but Mary and Fred’s voices can still be heard. It’s clear neither of them know the camera’s still on. 

It’s mumbling at first, but then the shrill sound of Archie screaming from his bedroom blades through the TV. 

They hear Mary sigh. “That’s the third time tonight.” 

They can hear Fred heave as he hauls himself off the bed. “I’ll go.”

“No,” they hear Mary chide. “You’re hurt.”

Fred tuts. “I’m fine, Mare. You need to sleep too. I’ll go.” 

The voices fade after that. After about thirty seconds of silence, Jughead reaches carefully across Fred for the remote and fast forwards. 

“Jug,” Betty scolds. 

“What?” Jughead asks, stuffing his mouth with a handful of popcorn. “There’s literally nothing happening,” he mumbles through the food. 

Fred laughs, turning his attention back to the tv when Betty gestures to Jug that he’d reached the next clip. 

Jughead hits play and the video screeches back on. The screen shows Archie’s nursery, painted green with zoo animal stickers on the wall. 

The room is lit only by Archie’s nightlight, illuminating Archie and Fred, making it seem like something meticulously planned out of a movie. 

Fred’s holding Archie, his head resting on Fred’s shoulder, but he’s wide awake, crying as Fred shushing him rhythmically. 

“Come on, tiger,” Fred whispers, running his hand up and down Archie’s back. “Go to sleep.” 

Archie doesn’t, just continues to cry. 

They watch as Mary moves the camera closer, moving the door so that more of the room can be seen.

Betty can make out the shadows of a toy tool box in the corner. Classic, she thinks. 

Young Fred continues bouncing up and down as Archie finally settles. Fred moves to the rocking chair, whispering, “Okay, son, can we sit? Daddy’s back hurts.” He looks straight at the camera. “I guess I really am old now,” he says to Mary. 

The camera shakes as Mary laughs. 

Fred attempts to sit, but Archie’s not pleased and begins to stir again. 

Fred bolts back up. “Okay, Okay, nevermind. It’s okay. Easy, buddy.”

He holds him for a few minutes before finally setting him back down in the crib. He turns back to face the camera, cocking the signature young Fred flirty smile. He comes closer to the camera, before going around to kiss Mary. She giggles and hugs him back, turning the camera so she and Fred come into frame. 

Mary kisses Fred on the cheek, before ruffling his hair. “Come on, old man, let’s go to bed.” 

The last frame shows Fred limping slightly back to the bedroom, Mary recording him from behind. She wraps his arms around him and the camera goes black.


	19. Chapter 19

Fred rises early the next morning, before sunrise, but manages to lay in bed for a few hours. It’s been years since he’s slept in. Even on weekends, he makes it a point to get up early to make breakfast and let the dog out so Archie can sleep in.

Being in high school is exhausting, he remembers that much.

Fred’s exhausted too, but for a different reason. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the upcoming appointment with Melody that day. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and he’s about to get up and go downstairs to find a way to distract himself, when Mary rolls over to find Fred awake.

“Hey,” she murmurs sleepily, shifting lower into the covers. “You’re up early.”

“Hmm,” he says, leaning over, fighting a groan to kiss her on the temple.

“You alright? Are you in pain?” Mary says, sitting up on her elbow, suddenly more awake at the sound of Fred’s grunt.

“No, no. I’m fine. Lay back down.”

It had been ages since they laid like this, hand in hand, Mary’s head on Fred’s shoulder. Suddenly, Fred doesn’t feel so anxious. He shifts his stiff neck from side to side, an action which Mary notices. She slips her hand in between his head and the pillow and rubs firm circles on his nape. 

Fred lets her do it, and they remain like that, silent but not uncomfortable, when they hear the bathroom sink down the hall turn on.

Fred huffs out a laugh and sits up. “I usually have to wake him up,” he says as they listen to Archie turn off the sink and turn on the shower. 

“Our little boy is growing up,” Mary says playfully, throwing off the covers and sliding out of bed. “I’ll get the coffee started, then we’ll get you dressed for physical therapy.”

Fred rolls his eyes at her, but laughs anyways, laying himself back gently on the bed and waits for her return.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Fred finds himself sitting across Melody in her office. He looks around and almost has to laugh at how much her office looks just like every therapist's office he's ever seen on TV. 

“Is it okay if we talk about some personal things?” Melody asks, interrupting his thoughts. 

“Sure,” Fred says, pursing his lips. “That’s why I’m here I guess.”

There’s a beat before Melody asks, “Can we talk about your father?”

Fred looks up suddenly. “I, uh. Yeah, I guess.”

“I remember you said that your father died when you were young. Twenty, was it?”

Fred nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“Can I ask how he died?”

“Cancer,” Fred responded, voice raspy from suppressed emotion.

“How old were you when he got sick?”

“Eighteen.”

“That’s not too much older than Archie. You must’ve worried a lot about him. I know I would’ve.”

“Yeah,” Fred says, looking away and rubbing his chin. “It was a lot.”

“How did it affect your senior year? I can’t imagine that you… would’ve had all the fun that you had hoped.”

Fred shook his head. “I had good friends…,” He looks away and shakes his head. “I was gonna go to college. I wanted to be an urban planner, but with all dad’s medical bills, I thought I’d be better to work. I wanted to help,” he pauses and shrugs. “I wanted to pull my weight.”

He can’t help but think of only a few months ago, when Archie had said that exact phrase to him.

“You had to give up a lot,” Melody suggests.

Fred shrugs again. “He was my dad,” he says solemnly. “I had to.” After a beat, he adds, “I wanted to.”

Melody smiles at him gently. “I suppose that you don’t want Archie to have to go through what you went through with your dad. You don’t want him to give up his dreams.”

“Can I be honest with you for a minute, Fred?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think you give Archie enough credit. He’s getting older. He’s capable of making decisions for himself… well, some of them,” she adds with a laugh. “If he wants to give something up for you, that’s his choice,” she finishes gently.

“I just… I remember being in high school. The homework and the sports and the girls. I just want to make sure I do what I can to make it better for him,” he says with a light laugh. “High school is hard work.”

Melody looks at him sincerely. “So is being a single father.”

Fred sighs, because he knows she’s right. “I just… I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“Well, Fred, have you ever considered that maybe you’re worth worrying about?”

Fred’s left speechless. He feels like the wind got knocked out of him. After a minute, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “That’s… I’ve never heard anybody put it like that.”

Melody cocks her head to the side with a smile. “That’s my job,” she says, gesturing to herself. “To help you see things from a different perspective.”

Melody walks him to the physical therapy room, where he spends the next hour walking with weights in his hands and letting Courtney stretch out his legs.

“Well, Fred,” Courtney announces at the end of his physical therapy appointment. “Good news. Your progress is incredible. I’m comfortable moving you to a cane today if you are.”

Fred looks at Mary, who shares the same ear to ear grin and Courtney. “That’s great, honey,” she says, rubbing her hand down his back.

Fred rolls the cane Courtney gives him in his hands, equal parts stunned and relieved. “Right. Yeah, that’s great. Thanks, Courtney.”

“Anytime. We’ll see you Monday.”

Mary helps him into the passenger seat, tossing the cane and crutches in the backseat. “This is great, Fred,” she says as she puts the key in the ignition. The cane will be so much easier to get around with than the crutches.”

Fred gives her a thin smile but doesn’t say anything. By the time they get back home, his initial feelings of relief have been replaced with the dreaded combination of anxiety and annoyance. Half of him is still thinking about his conversation with Melody, the other half repeating Mary’s word in his head.

The thought of “getting around easier” make him nauseous. The truth is, he doesn’t want to get around, to go out, to face the town. He’s lost weight, he knows that, and he actually _looks_ weaker, his eyes and cheeks sunken, his hair a perpetual mess. He’s ashamed of himself. Not outwardly so, but somewhere deep in his gut. He’s been around long enough to be able to identify that feeling in himself. He’s felt it before.

He breaks rocks for a living, for god’s sake. He can’t possibly go around town using a cane to hold himself up.

His dad had used a cane to get around too, after he got sick, before it got really bad. He could almost laugh at the irony. His dad’s cane had been the first sign that things were getting worse, that they might never return to normal.

Yet, here he is, twenty some odd years later, surrounded by people who were ecstatic that Fred had graduated to a cane. If only his dad could see him now.

Archie comes home soon after and he and Jughead immediately take the lead in being the most excited about Fred’s new third leg, as he calls it.

“That’s awesome, Dad! That means it’s time to get back out there, huh?”

Fred laughs nervously. “Maybe not yet, son. Give me couple of days to get used to this thing.”

* * *

The sun had set and dinner come and gone when Fred finds himself in the living room with the Cooper ladies.

Jughead looks over at Mr. Andrews, not surprised to see his eyes glazing over. He’s staring into space, likely exhausted from being up and talking for the last few hours.

Polly Cooper had come home, unaware of the tragedy that had occurred next door. When she heard, she had to go over there. She just had to.

She’d had a special bond with Mr. Andrews, or “Mr. Fred,” as she’d called him with she was younger. She was a few years older than Archie and had spent several nights at the then childless Andrews’ home while her parents were away.

She liked Mary too, but Fred, she loved Fred. He’s sneak her cookies and watch movies and tell her stories when she was scared. He’d always been strong, solid. Unbreakable.

And now, to see him so… broken, it made Polly want to cry. But that could just be the hormones.

“Mr. A?” Jughead’s voice broke Polly out of her thoughts. They were seated in the Andrews’ living room.

Fred had answered the door, too tired to hide his surprise at Polly’s presence. They had hugged, both conscious of the other’s abdomen.

He’d led them into the living room, well, hobbled really, using the kitchen counter and chairs to support him. He sank into the Lay-Z-Boy, but not before offering them something to eat or drink. He had to keep up with Alice, after all.

She’d started to respond, but Archie and Jughead had come barreling down. “You sit, Dad. I’ll get it.”

“Oh, we’re fine,” Betty had offered.

Fred had reached over ever so lightly, hiding a groan, to rub Polly’s shoulder. “You look good, kiddo,” he had said.

She was sad at the sound of his voice. The voice that had told him stories about princesses and knights in shining armor, now sounded so… tired. There was a huskiness that told the Cooper ladies that they had likely woken him up.

Polly had just smiled at him, determined to make this a positive visit. “How are you feeling?” she offered gently.

“Oh, you know, I had to postpone my next marathon, but I’m alive, right?”

Alice rolled her eyes, but Polly smiled at that, relieved that at least Fred’s humor hadn’t been shot too.

“Hey, Dad,” Archie says now, noting the glazed over look as well. 

“Hm?” Fred blinks, realizing he’d been staring into space, unaware of the conversation around him.

“You okay, Mr. A?” Jughead asks.

“Fine,” Fred says, clearing his throat when he heard its raspiness. “I, uh, I guess sitting tires me out now,” he adds with a nervous laugh.

It sounded light enough, but Polly sensed some bitterness in his voice. Like Fred was angry at himself for needed time to recover.

“Hey, uh, I’m gonna go to bed, I think.” Fred looks at Polly as he spoke and gives her a fatherly smile that makes her heart break even more. 

She rises, the rest of her group following her lead, as Archie discreetly supports his father as he stands up from the chair.

Fred reaches for Polly’s hand, and she gives it. “You don’t be a stranger now, okay? I better see you again before those babies are born,” he says, giving her a tired half-smile.

Polly nods, letting out a watery laugh. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Fred.”

Fred cupped his hand quickly on her cheek. “You too, kiddo.”

He turns to leave, wrapping his arm around his right side, a habit he’d found himself doing regularly.

“Thanks for coming Betty, Alice,” Fred says, rubbing the shoulder of the youngest Cooper and nodding at her mother.

“Sleep well, Mr. A, Betty offers. 

Alice nods. “Get some rest, Fred.”

* * *

He makes it up the stairs by himself, with the help of his cane. His thoughts flit back to his father as he adjusts himself on the bed, tossing the cane gently on the ground, frustrated but careful not to damage the wood. His mother had been so anxious about Artie’s cane and had instructed Fred and Oscar nearly every day to keep a close eye on their father, to make sure he didn’t fall. Artie had hated nothing more, waving them away and rolling his eyes at his wife. 

 _You don’t need to worry about me. I’m perfectly fine,_ he used to say.

His heart suddenly aches for his father, wishing he was sitting in front of him now so he could relay Melody’s words of wisdom to him.

_Maybe you’re worth worrying about too, Dad._


	20. Chapter 20

He hates to admit it, but he gets used to cane quickly. He doesn’t like it, not in the slightest, but it makes getting around a hell of a lot easier. He made it around the block with Mary a few days ago, and again with Archie and Vegas this morning. He’s tired, but getting out and about makes him feel better, _and_ helps him sleep better at night. 

“Hey, you,” Mary says as she comes into the master bedroom. It’s nearing eleven, the longest Fred’s managed to stay awake since the day he got shot. The night outside is cloudless; Fred can see the stars shimmering in the sky through the window. It’s been a good day.

Fred shifts, sitting up in the bed, as Mary settles cross legged next to him. From his spot on the floor by Fred’s feet, Vegas whines.

“Oh hush,” Mary says, rolling her eyes. “Ungrateful mutt.”

Fred laughs. It doesn’t hurt. “Oh come on, you’re in his spot. You can’t blame him for being angry.”

Mary doesn’t say anything, but smiles, taking it in stride. She pulls a manila folder from the bedside table onto her lap, sliding her glasses onto her face from the top of her head. She reaches for the remote and the TV flicks on. They’d never had a television in their bedroom while they were married. Neither of them seemed particularly interested; Fred rarely touched the television unless it was baseball season, and Mary simply never had the time. The TV that sits on the dresser now was a gift from Jughead and Archie, pulled from Junkyard Steve’s stash, for Fred when he got home from the hospital. Something to distract him.

He’ll never tell them that he’d barely touched it. Sleep engulfed him in the early days of his recovery, and he’d only given a blearly second glance to the new piece of technology in his bedroom. But Mary seemed to fall asleep easier with the noise, so he didn’t mind.

“Should I turn it off?” she asks now, when she notices Fred rolling onto his good side to face her, pulling the covers to his shoulders.

“No,” he says, half-asleep. “I like the noise.” He feels his eyelids growing heavy, but can’t help but open them when he hears the sound of a drill floating in from the television. “What is this?” he says, looking at the screen.

Mary laughs. “The Property Brothers. They fix and sell houses.”

Intrigued, Fred sits up slightly, turning his full attention to the television. “That’s a show?” he says, watches as the crew on the TV works on building a bathroom wall. “People watch it?”

“Yeah,” Mary says, closing the folder she’d been reading. “It’s one of the most popular things on these days. There’s a whole channel.”

“That’s wild. I should’ve gotten in on that.”

“What, had your own show?”

Fred nods, eyes lit up. Mary watches him, unable to stop herself from smiling. She hadn’t seen this much of the old Fred since she’d arrived. “Fred’s Fixer Uppers?”

He breaks into a grin. “Hey, that’s not bad. You could’ve been my producer.”

She shakes her head, looking at his smile until he turns his head back to face her. Tries not to think about how she came _this_ close to never seeing that smile again. He watches as her own smile falters minutely and reaches over to squeeze her knee.

“Hey,” he says, “you okay?”

She is, almost. Maybe. “Fine, just…”

She hopes he’ll drop it, even though she knows he won’t. He just waits, patiently rubbing circles on her arm with his thumb. “This case I’m working on,” she says, gesturing to the now closed folder, “Guy got shot and the bullet just exploded inside of him. Ripped him apart.” She tilts her head back so it rests on the headboard, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“That’s awful,” Fred says, in the voice reserved for her particularly bad days in court and Archie’s fights with Jughead.  

She looks up at him, takes him in, whole and almost well again, and she can’t stop the tears from forming. “It could’ve been so much worse, Fred.” She shakes her head, feels him squeeze her hand. “We could’ve lost you. We almost did.”

Fred smiles something sad. “You didn’t,” he says.  “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He huffs out a laugh and straightens himself out. “I’ll _be_ fine. Real soon, and then you can get back to your life and stop worrying about me.”

He’s smiling, so Mary knows he’s being genuine, wanting her to return to a life free of gunshot wounds and dead teenage boys. That was his life, not hers.

_You are my life_ , she doesn’t say. _You and Archie._ Instead, she just sighs. “Fred…”

“Look, don’t get me wrong, Mare. You’ve been… wonderful. We wouldn’t have been able to get through this without you. But I can walk around. I’ll be able to drive in a week or two. I’m okay now. Really.”

She’s been putting this conversation off long enough, and she can’t decide if she’s afraid to leave because she doesn’t want Fred to overextend himself or because she knows she’ll miss him. Archie. _This_. “Next week,” she says. “I’ll go next week.”

That seems to satisfy him, because squeezes her shoulder and slides back down the pillows, asleep less than a minute later.

* * *

He wakes up to screaming. It’s almost comical how he and Mary bolt up at the same time, both immediately able to recognize Archie’s voice before they even have the chance to open their eyes fully.

They’re out of the room seconds later, and Fred tries his best not to panic when Mary checks Archie’s room and says he’s not in there.

The screams keep coming, a jumbled mess of _no please don’t_ and _leave him alone,_ now clearly emanating from downstairs. Fred’s halfway down when he realizes he doesn’t have his cane, but the thought is immediately knocked out of his mind when he hears Archie choke out a _dad, please help me._

Mary beats him down to the landing, looking up and nodding something calm and reassuring when she sees that’s Archie’s physically unharmed.

A nightmare. Fred’s no stranger to those. Mary isn’t either, if she’s being honest. Archie’s sitting on a wooden crate, leaning up against the wall in the front hallway. The bat that was obviously in his hands has now fallen away, rolled towards the stairs.

He’s shaking, jerking, calling out for _dad_ and _mom_ and telling whoever is haunting him to _stop, please._

Fred gets to his knees, tries to shake his son awake, does his best to ignore his aching side. “Archie. Arch, son, it’s okay. Wake up. Wake up for me.”

He doesn’t, so Fred keeps trying. Mary’s already at the kitchen, filling a glass with water and bringing it over.

They’re a good pair, he and Mary. They balance each other out.

“Archie, kiddo,” Fred tries again. He’s about to say something else when Archie jerks away, his eyes flying open. He tries to get up, to reach for the bat he doesn’t realize is no longer near him, but Fred pushes him back down gently. “It’s okay,” he whispers, giving him the space he desperately wants after his own bad dreams, but keeps a hand on his shoulder. “It was just a dream.”

“Dad,” Archie says, and then his face crumbles. He shoves his head into the crook of Fred’s neck, and Fred takes it as permission to wrap his arms around him.

“It’s okay,” he soothes. “It was just a dream. Everything’s fine.”

Archie starts to cry, his face hidden in Fred’s shoulder, so he can’t see the look his parents share. Fred reaches to take the water from Mary and leans out of the embrace. “Here, son. Small sips.”

Archie does as he’s told, keeping one hand on the glass and one hand on his father. “You’re okay?” he asks, and Fred’s heart breaks at how small he sounds, like he's a little boy again.

“Just fine, Arch.”

He looks at his mother, silently asking her the same question, and breathes a sigh of relief when she nods.

“Come on,” Fred says, keeping his arm wrapped around Archie’s shoulders as he hoists him up, leading him up the stairs.

“No, Dad-”

“It’s okay,” Mary says, picking up the bat. “I’ll stay down here, honey. You need to sleep.”

Archie’s gaze lingers on his mother for a minute before turning his attention to the stairs. Fred feels his shoulders sag under his grip.

He won’t ask why Archie was downstairs with a baseball, won’t ask what the nightmare was about. Not tonight. They’ll talk about it tomorrow, all of them, but for now all Fred cares about is putting his boy to bed.

“Can I stay?” he asks, so Archie doesn’t have to, once they’re in his room and Fred’s managed to wrangle his half-asleep son into the twin bed.

“Yeah," Archie says, and he feels the knot in his stomach untwist, knowing that at least for tonight, his dad's safe and sound with him. 


End file.
